


Just Friends

by Ginipig



Series: Love By Any Other Name [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beginning of romantic feelings, Developing Friendships, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Alistair, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mention of previous Alistair/Zevran, Mention of previous Leliana/Female Warden, Warden Alistair, Warden Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Alistair's glad the Inquisition is helping him in his quest to save the Wardens, but since he arrived at Skyhold a few weeks ago, he's been feeling a bit ... in the way. The only good thing about it all is his growing friendship with Cullen. But when an unexpected situation sends them both reeling, Alistair begins to reevaluate his relationship with — and feelings for — the Inquisition's Commander.





	1. Feeling Useless

**Author's Note:**

> This fic place a few weeks after [Company](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19185673), but can be read as a standalone (all required information is included herein).
> 
> This will be only three chapters; chapter two only needs a bit of editing and chapter three is almost finished, so if all goes well (ha) they will be posted quickly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's been treating Alistair like a distraction at best and a nuisance at worst. Only Cullen helps him feel useful — until he doesn't, and Alistair begins to wonder if his relationship with Cullen is a bit one-sided.

“All right, who’s next?”

Cullen’s recruits shuffled nervously, glancing around at each other, but no one volunteered.

Alistair sighed softly. He hadn’t intended to intimidate them; he only wanted to help. During his own training, he’d always learned the most by sparring with people far more experienced than himself. But only if they actually helped and weren’t just showing off or being assholes.

He didn’t think he was doing either of those things, but he often forgot how scary and mysterious people found Grey Wardens. For many of these folks, he was probably the first they’d ever met.

“I’ll go,” came a deep, familiar voice from the back.

The recruits all turned abruptly, postures straightening, and the small crowd parted to reveal Cullen, arms crossed and smirking as he approached the sparring ring.

Alistair lowered his shield to hold it loosely at his side and stuck his sword point-down in the grass, leaning on it like it was an Orlesian lady’s parasol. “I thought you asked me to help train your recruits.” He spread his arms and smiled. “If this was all an elaborate way to set up a sparring match with me, you could have just asked.”

It was half a joke; secretly, he wondered if Cullen now regretted asking him to lead training this morning, having found his instruction wanting. How long had he been watching, anyway?

But Cullen’s smirk widened as he reached Alistair, and he cocked an eyebrow.

Even though he’d been at Skyhold a few weeks now, Alistair still couldn’t believe the wry, cynical, confident Commander of the Inquisition was the same man as the serious and borderline sanctimonious Fereldan kid he’d known in training, who, despite being a year younger than Alistair, always scolded him for goofing off and cracking jokes during … well, anything not food-related. The past decade had changed him a lot, and though Alistair knew that was due to immense struggle and suffering on Cullen’s part, he wasn’t sure the changes were a entirely bad thing.

What he did know for certain was that he liked this version of Cullen much better.

“Are you sure about that?” Cullen asked, eyebrow still raised, arms still crossed. “Because I seem to remember beating you soundly every time we sparred in training.”

A chorus of _ooh_ s rippled through the crowd, which was definitely larger than it had been a few minutes before. Cullen smiled placidly, looking rather punchably smug.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Alistair twirled his sword with an admittedly showy flourish and swung his shield into position. “When was the last time you even held a sword, anyway? You’ve been spending too long in that tower writing memos, old man.”

The crowd gasped and then fell into a tense silence, and for a second Alistair worried he’d pushed too far. He was always doing that, idiot that he was. Cullen commanded these people and they clearly respected him, then along came stupid Alistair, undermining him in front of a rapidly growing crowd of not just recruits anymore.

But Cullen, to Alistair’s relief and not insignificant delight, merely tilted his head in a sort of confused disbelief. “I’m a year younger than you.”

Alistair grinned. “Prove it, then.”

That earned Alistair an honest-to-Maker Cullen Rutherford smile.

Cullen turned to the nearest recruit and asked, “May I?” with a nod to the recruit’s shield. The recruit couldn’t hand it over fast enough, and when Cullen had settled it on his arm and tested its weight, he drew his ever-present sword from its sheath.

“That’s an awfully long, pretty sword you have there, Commander,” Alistair said without thinking — obviously, otherwise he’d have come up with something far better.

The now fairly large crowd snickered, but Cullen’s face flushed almost as red as the big, furry collar on his coat. Alistair almost felt bad, but he knew from experience that Cullen was an excellent fighter; granted, that experience was ten years old, and his own fighting style had likely improved and diverged since then, but still. He didn’t want to be completely destroyed only a few minutes in, and teasing Cullen was a good way to distract him.

It was damned adorable, though, that he still managed to get flustered at even the laziest of innuendos. Between Leliana and Zev, Alistair had had no choice but to get over his aversion quickly if he didn’t want to be teased incessantly.

Cullen’s mouth was a thin line now, which meant Alistair had gotten under his skin. “Are you going to fight, or are you going to crack jokes?”

To Alistair’s surprise, that thin line quirked up just slightly at the corners at the familiar taunt — Cullen had always said the same thing when they sparred in training, but he’d never done so with any sort of humor before.

Alistair grinned once again and responded with his own line of old. “Don’t worry, Rutherford, I can do both.” Then, to keep things from getting too nostalgic, he asked, “Are you going to wear that animal around your shoulders the whole time?”

Cullen laughed out loud at that, and Alistair couldn’t help but notice how lovely a sound it was. He’d heard it a few times since he’d arrived, but never in public. From the murmur of the crowd, he got the impression this was a first for Cullen, which made something ache in Alistair’s chest. He decided then and there to do whatever he could to coax that laugh from its confinement as often as possible.

Cullen settled into his stance. “As often as you remark on my coat, I’d think you were a little envious.”

Alistair mirrored him, snorting. “Oh, yes, I’ve always wished I could pull off wearing a large, dead furry thing on my shoulders, but I really don’t have the hips for it.”

The crowd laughed; Cullen did not, nor did he respond. And that’s how Alistair knew they’d officially started.

During training, he would always follow his “I can do both” line with a quick strike, hoping to catch Cullen off guard. It had never worked because Cullen was never off guard. But Alistair had learned a few things since training as a Templar.

Patience was a big one.

Occasionally, getting the first strike in could gain Alistair an upper hand. Most often, though, waiting for an opponent to attack first allowed Alistair to get in a solid hit before they had recovered from launching their first one. And it wasn’t as though he couldn’t take damage; that was his job, for Maker’s sake.

So he waited.

Cullen’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment Alistair thought he actually looked impressed.

In the next moment, Alistair had instinctually blocked an attempt to pierce his guard on the right, then taken advantage of Cullen’s recovery to strike under his sword shoulder. Cullen parried the attack with little effort, and then they were off.

Damn, Cullen had somehow gotten even faster in the past decade. Good thing Alistair’s reflexes were well-honed — he was _very_ good at dodging things. Even better than he was at hitting things.

Once again, Cullen looked surprised, but Alistair just grinned. “Nice try. You’d be surprised how quickly a horde of darkspawn teaches you how to adequately guard your right.”

Cullen smirked, but he didn’t let up on Alistair, who thereafter couldn’t spare the breath for a sarcastic remark as his reflexes were pushed to the limit defending against a constant assault.

Alistair got a strike in here and there, which Cullen easily parried, but he’d had fought enough opponents like him over the years to know the best strategy — let them wear themselves down, and then make your move.

Unfortunately (and surprisingly), Cullen wasn’t easily worn down. His stamina, while not Warden-level, was definitely impressive for a man who spent most of his day sitting in meetings and reading reports. Alistair wondered how often the Inquisition’s Commander joined his troops in their training regimen, and how he fit it in among all the bureaucracy.

They met each other hit for hit, swords clashing, shields clanging, the crowd _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing at just the right moments. Cullen got in the first hit, a flat blade to — damn it — Alistair’s right side, which earned him that smug grin again. But Alistair got in a few of his own, albeit with a couple of dirty tricks he’d learned from Zev, Oghren, and even Leliana (who was nearly as good with daggers as she was with a bow).

But they each recovered quickly, and neither succeeded in gaining the upper hand.

Alistair wasn’t sure how long they’d been at it when the first sign of Cullen’s fatigue appeared, but it didn’t manifest how he’d expected. Rather than missing a block or parrying too slowly, Cullen stumbled on a simple forward attack.

A few traded and defended strikes later, it happened again, this time when Cullen moved his shield to block.

When he could risk a glance, Alistair found Cullen’s jaw tight, brow furrowed in concentration, face too pale for such exertion.

Maker, he was so stupid. He’d lost himself in the back and forth and the fun and the challenge Cullen had posed that he hadn’t thought about how this all looked and felt to Cullen. The Commander of the Inquisition couldn’t lose in front of his men — not only could it potentially affect their respect for him (though Alistair highly doubted anything ever could after the events of Haven), but he had his pride, and indeed, Cullen Rutherford was a proud man. Not to the point of hubris, exactly but he had always stubbornly refused to show weakness in front of anyone.

That was Cullen’s fatal flaw, though. What he apparently hadn’t learned in the past decade, as Alistair had, was that asking for help was hardly a weakness, but a sign of strength. So here he was, battling fucking lyrium withdrawal — known to only a few, Alistair (proudly) included, due to said stubborn pride — while openly challenging a Grey Warden. Yes, one of those mysterious and legendary heroes renowned for their _impressive stamina_ in battle.

The third time Cullen stumbled, Alistair took a large step back and let his weapons drop to his side. With a grin, he said, panting, “What say you we call this a draw, Commander? I think we’ve shown off long enough, and your troops probably need to get back to their actual training, eh?”

Cullen, out of breath himself, and chuckled. “I think you’re right, Warden.” He sheathed his sword and leaned forward in a slight bow. “Thank you for indulging me. You’d be surprised how unwilling troops can be to strike hard at their Commander, lest he take grave offense.”

Alistair had no time for a witty response before a familiar gravelly voice shouted from the crowd, “I don’t know, Curly, pretty sure the Seeker has no qualms about knocking you on your ass.”

The crowd snickered as Cullen rolled his eyes and handed his borrowed shield back to the recruit. “Thank you, Varric, once again, for your unsolicited opinion.”

Alistair laughed at that while Varric yelled a response and the crowd began, of course, exchanging coin. He sheathed his sword, and held out a hand, which Cullen took.

Alistair pulled him in close and whispered, “You okay?”

“Fine.” When Cullen pulled back, he looked sincerely confused for a second before smirking. “They should listen to you better now.” Then he addressed the crowd, which had dispersed until only the original troops remained. “I want as many people sparring against Warden Alistair as the next two hours will allow. His style is different from what most of you have seen, and you can learn a lot from him. Keep in mind that an enemy won’t fight honorably, nor will they often ensure proper rules of engagement before attacking.” A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, which Cullen allowed before ending, “As you were.”

He made his way through the crowd to the back, and as the next person stepped up to the ring to face Alistair, Cullen smiled and _winked_. Alistair’s jaw literally dropped, and the Commander of the Inquisition walked away to do … whatever it was he did this time of morning.

Answer memos, probably.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, after sparring with two dozen of Cullen’s recruits — including a returned for a second round to show their improvements — Alistair headed up the steps and across the battlements to Cullen’s tower. He needed to report to Cullen about the training, and also it was time for lunch, which Cullen had agreed to have with him.

Alistair knocked on the door, which was open.

“What is it now?” Cullen snapped without raising his head from the parchment he wrote on.

“Lunchtime. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Around the midday hour, people generally take a small break to consume food. It’s all the rage these days.”

Cullen looked up at Alistair’s voice, and his sternness evaporated in a weak smile. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “It’s been a hectic morning.”

“You okay?” Alistair might have only been around for a few weeks, but he knew the signs of Cullen’s lyrium headaches when he saw them.

“Just a headache,” Cullen confirmed, returning to whatever he was writing. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Alistair had also been around long enough to learn that that was always Cullen’s answer, even if it wasn’t true. “Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

Cullen’s hand froze, and his eyes flicked to Alistair and back to the parchment. “Probably not.”

Alistair laughed. “Well, at least you’re honest about your lying. I’ll give you zero points for that because they cancel each other out.”

Signing the bottom of the parchment with a flourish, Cullen finally put down the quill and leaned back in his chair with, Alistair was pleased to see, a genuine smile.

“So how many points do I have right now?” Cullen asked.

That was Alistair’s cue that he could enter and converse, so he crossed the office and sat on a corner of Cullen’s desk, which he did because it drew — yep, that annoyed look from Cullen. “Less than me,” he said with a grin, “and that’s all you need to know.”

Cullen apparently decided not to ask about the point system, which was unfortunate because Alistair had an entire structure for future jokes he wanted to introduce. He’d figure out how to work it in later.

“I stepped out a few times to watch your training,” Cullen said. “You did well with them, and they responded. How did it feel?”

Alistair felt his cheeks heat at the compliment. He’d trained hundreds of Wardens by this point in his life, but all that had ever earned him was more recruits to train and criticisms about how he wasn’t including this for the dual wielders or that for the mages. And yes, he was bitter and cynical about that and lots of things, as Hawke so kindly pointed out to him after they’d met the Inquisitor — “Maker’s sake, Al, she wanted to talk to a hero of the Fifth Blight, not Grumpy Grandpa Warden!” He’d snapped back that she didn’t exactly love being called the Champion of Kirkwall these days, which made her go quiet. She was the only person who really understood what it was like for him, to be at the center of everything when all you wanted was to be left alone, and then your friends all scattered to the winds when it was over and you had to do what you could to keep from stabbing people when they asked what it had been like. He’d apologized to her about five minutes later and to the Inquisitor when he’d arrived at Skyhold, and _she_ was so understanding that he thought maybe he’d met a second person who had an idea what he felt about everything having to do with the Blight and Wardens.

So yes, when Cullen said Alistair did well, he reveled in it.

Maker, he was pathetic.

To further demonstrate how utterly pitiful he was, he grinned in addition to blushing. “It felt good. Glad I could be useful for a change.”

Cullen frowned and leaned forward. “You know that’s not why I asked you to do it, right?”

His grin faltered, as it always did when people saw through his smiles to the miserable, squishy insides he tried so hard to hide with them, but he gave it an extra boost and did what else he always did — cracked a joke. “It was at least fifty percent why, though.”

“You needed something to do, and I had something you could do.” Cullen looked Alistair straight in the eye, serious as a Blight, and Alistair barely stopped himself from squirming. “Maker knows everyone’s always telling me to delegate, so I did, to someone I knew I could trust to do it well.” Alistair blinked at that, throat stinging a bit, but Cullen smiled and added, “And still you exceeded my expectations. Rylen said the veteran troops rquested a chance to spar against the Grey Warden.”

Alistair’s mouth opened and closed a couple times. He smiled sheepishly and looked away. He wasn’t used to this sort of attention that didn’t have to do with his role in the Blight (and people really only wanted to hear about _her_ anyway), but damned if he didn’t feel downright giddy at the prospect. “That’s — that’s great, Cullen. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“I know you will. And I appreciate it.”

There his dumb cheeks went, turning red again at a silly compliment. But from someone like Cullen, who had always been better than him at, well, everything …

This was getting far too serious and embarrassing. He needed to extricate himself, and now.

So he rolled his eyes and smirked. “Be honest. Did you offer to spar with me so you could show off and get them to see how good I was, or did you just want an actual challenge for once?”

Cullen leaned back in his chair casually and said, “Don’t worry, I can do both.”

Alistair laughed at that, and Cullen grinned, and damn, was that a good look on him. He seemed actually happy for once, and surprisingly, Alistair was, too, in spite of everything else going on with the Wardens and Corypheus and the Calling and the Breach. Who’d have guessed he would find a friend in Cullen Rutherford, of all people? Up until several days after he arrived at Skyhold, he wouldn’t have.

“That said,” Cullen continued, smiling. “Varric” — he grew suddenly serious — “and if you tell anyone this I will not hesitate to recruit Sera and Leliana into my plan for retribution” — Alistair couldn’t help a grin as Cullen sighed. “Varric was right. At my best, I can only bring Cassandra to a draw. She has, however, never …” He rolled his eyes.

“Knocked you on your ass?” Alistair offered.

“Absolutely not,” Cullen said sternly. “But Varric could tell you what that feels like.”

Alistair laughed. “Not surprising. That woman terrifies me.”

“You and the rest of Thedas,” Cullen muttered.

The conversation reached a lull at that point, comfortable at first, and then Alistair began to hear it again — the song. The Calling. That was the real reason he’d wanted to stay as busy as possible. Well, part of the real reason. He truly did want to be useful and not a burden to the organization that agreed to protect and assist him against his own Order. But mostly, he was attempting to stave off the song — the same one that the darkspawn heard, that drew them to dig until they found and infected an Old God, that was so mesmerizing and beautiful and insanity-inducing that if he paid it any attention he would set out for the Deep Roads or die trying. If he was fighting or talking, he could mostly tune it out, but other times … well, there was a reason he’d talked to Leliana so much since he’d arrived that she’d practically thrown him out of her tower and begged him to find something, anything to do so that she get her work done.

“So …” he said, searching for something to say that might have a chance of not sounding stupid. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Lunch?”

Sure, that worked. As a bonus, it also happened to be true.

Cullen stood abruptly, looking to the clock on the wall. “Maker’s breath, I have to meet Leliana in five minutes.” He began to quickly gather what seemed like random papers into a stack.

Alistair’s heart sank, and he slid off the desk. “At lunchtime?”

When Cullen looked up, he was genuinely apologetic. “I know this is the third day in a row that I’ve been too busy to have lunch with you, and I’m sorry. But Leliana set up this meeting this morning to discuss reports that our scouts in Emprise du Lion have —”

“It’s okay,” Alistair said lightly, even though it really wasn’t. He truly enjoyed Cullen’s company, and Cullen knew, since their talk a few days after his arrival, how badly the Calling was affecting him. Cullen had even likened it to the song of lyrium that called to him in his worst bouts of withdrawal. Which was why, Alistair suspected, he’d been the only one in the past few weeks who hadn’t told Alistair to, _Go away, I’m busy_.

Until now.

Cullen placed a comforting hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “No, it’s not okay. I enjoy our talks, and we haven’t been able to sit down at all this week. I want to hear how your plan for the Western Approach is coming, and I’d like to get your opinion on a few things.”

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Alistair dropped his gaze. “Find things to keep me occupied. I’m a big boy, I can entertain myself.”

“Yes, I have clearly devoted my excess of free time to treating you like a child.” Cullen rolled his eyes. “I would not ask for your advice or assistance if I did not think it useful. I neither suffer nor waste my time on fools.”

“What are you doing talking to me, then?” Alistair said, his smile a little sad. “I thought you had a meeting with Princess Stabbity.”

“Alistair, you are _not_ —” Cullen’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, a meeting with whom?”

“Lels.” Alistair grinned. “You know. Princess Stabbity.”

Cullen actually gaped for a moment before rubbing his forehead. “For your well-being, I will make sure she does not hear of that nickname.”

“Who do you think I am, Cullen? I invented that nickname _in front of her_.”

Cullen shook his head in amused disbelief. “How are you still alive?”

“Bad luck, I guess.”

That wiped Cullen’s smile away, which Alistair had not intended. “Dinner. Tonight. I have no meetings scheduled, and if anyone asks, I will tell them I have a prior engagement. I’ll even track down something good for us to drink. As an apology.”

Alistair swallowed. He _wasn’t_ going to get emotional, but the fact that Cullen seemed to care so much about missing their lunches was … nice. It had been years since he’d had in-person friends (as opposed to the ones only available via letter) who wanted him to be happy. Not since the Blight ended. He’d forgotten what it felt like. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “I’ll drag you away from reports around dinnertime.”

“Good.” Cullen nodded and turned to leave by the door heading to Leliana’s tower. “Because I have notes on your performance this morning.”

Alistair blinked several times, then laughed. “It’s still so weird that you’re funny now.”

Cullen smirked. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. Perhaps you should simply accept the fact that you enjoy my company far more than you used to.”

And he left, leaving Alistair grinning after him, replaying those smoothly confident words in his head.

_You enjoy my company far more than you used to._

Yes. He really, really did.

 

* * *

 

Alistair spent a good bit of the afternoon watching Cullen’s soldiers train, just to get a feel for how they operated and what to expect. The background noise of sparring was almost enough to drown out the Calling; the rest he covered up by humming an old Chantry song that they’d been taught in Templar training for help in mediation and focus. (Cullen knew that one, too, and had recognized it, which was part of how Alistair ended up telling him about the Calling in the first place.)

Later, he found Hawke and asked if she’d heard anything new from her sources about the ritual tower the Wardens were meeting at in the Approach (she hadn’t), and then it was time for dinner. As he headed to Cullen’s tower, he wondered if Cullen had been serious about asking for advice. He had a few ideas to improve the training regimen, but he wouldn’t offer them unless asked. The Inquisition was doing him a favor by harboring him and helping to stop the Wardens; the last thing he wanted was to become a nuisance. That went tenfold for Cullen.

When he reached Cullen’s office, he knocked on the (open, as always) door and entered, as he had in the afternoon.

Cullen’s desk was deserted.

That was odd. Not just because Cullen was practically chained to his desk when he wasn’t in meetings, but also because whenever he left, he closed all the doors. It was possible, Alistair supposed, that some messengers or scouts dropping off reports had left them open, but his Warden senses (which was what he called his ability to sense darkspawn as well as his general feel for danger, much to the chagrin of his fellow Wardens) told him something wasn’t right.

“Cullen?” he asked the empty room, whose curtains were drawn, as if Cullen was hiding behind one of the three pieces of furniture in his sparse office.

It was likely that Cullen was stuck in a meeting again. But Alistair didn’t have anything better to do (he rarely did) so he found a quill and a spare bit of parchment to leave a note for Cullen explaining where he was going, on the off-chance Cullen returned before he did. Then he left to try to track him down.

Since two of his favorite things about Skyhold were the fresh mountain air and view of the Frostbacks, he’d walked along the battlements to get to Cullen’s office. Had Cullen been out for a walk, which he did on occasion to clear his head or ease his headaches, they would have passed each other along the way. So Alistair headed across the bridge to the main hall to find the person most likely to know where anyone in the Inquisition was at any point in time.

As he passed through the rotunda, he nodded at its occupant. “Evening, Solas.”

“Warden.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Careful. Keep up the effusive greetings and I might think you actually like me.”

Solas said nothing. He didn’t even look up from the giant tome he was reading.

The pompous elf annoyed Alistair. Mostly because the first time they’d met, he hadn’t even said hello, merely launched into a lecture about how the Wardens were terrible and their mission (“Killing darkspawn? Or saving the world from Blights?” “Killing the Old Gods.” “Well, they tried to kill us first, so they kind of deserved it.”) was terrible and their mentality of doing whatever it took to end a Blight was terrible. Alistair actually agreed with that last one, but he wasn’t about to tell Solas that.

At any rate, they mostly avoided each other, or else Alistair might have to worry about being sanctimoniously lectured or ignored to death.

But right now, he was on a mission, and he didn’t have time for pride.

“You haven’t seen Cullen, by any chance, have you?”

Solas looked up from his big book of probably old elven things and regarded Alistair for a moment. Alistair didn’t squirm, but it was a close thing; something about that gaze made him feel like Solas was staring into his soul, and he did not like it one bit.

“Not since he passed through here several hours ago, I assume on his way to his office,” Solas said in that weirdly dreamy voice of his. “He has not passed back this way.”

“That’s actually helpful,” Alistair said in mock — and not a small amount of real — disbelief. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“While I do find you overtaxing, it takes much more than conveying a simple fact to harm me, though your concern is touching.”

“Well, I do what I can.”

“As we are all well aware.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes to cover up the sting of that thrust. “I can’t tell if that was a joke or an insult.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, Warden, as you well know.”

“That, I’ll take as a compliment,” Alistair said with a grin he didn’t feel. “Thanks for the help, Chuckles!” he called behind him as he headed up the stairs.

At his use of Varric’s nickname, a grumble echoed through the rotunda, turning his grin into a genuine one.

When he reached the second floor, a voice called, “Alistair, you ruined my perfectly lovely day this morning!”

Jogging around the central railing, he shouted to Dorian, “I was framed!”

The denizens of the second floor turned to look at him — though not at Dorian, perhaps because they expected such loud distractions from him — sternly, except for the small elven woman he’d only met briefly in his first week. Former Grand Enchanter Fiona shook her head with a small, oddly fond smile. She looked at him like that often during his visits with Dorian, which he would have found creepy if she didn’t seem so … sad. He’d always thought it would be rude to ask, but he assumed that he reminded of her of someone she’d cared about and lost; having himself lost far too many people he cared about, he had little difficulty recognizing such an intimately familiar feeling.

So as he passed, he did what he always did when he caught her looking — he winked at her. He knew from experience that sometimes a kind gesture could banish a little of the grief. Today, as usual, she looked away, but with a smile.

“What did I do this time?” Alistair asked when he reached Dorian.

Dorian scoffed. “Varric placed good odds on the Commander defeating you in your little contest this morning, and then you went and declared a draw! Do you know how much money you lost me?”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Well gee, Dorian, I’m so sorry to have lost you the money you bet _against_ me.”

“As you should be!” Dorian somehow managed to look down his nose at Alistair in spite of the fact that Alistair had several inches on him. “Especially since you declared a draw just as he was getting the upper hand!”

“Oh, come on,” Alistair said, in his best faux-casual tone. “How do you know I didn’t declare a draw to let him save face in front of his troops?”

He certainly wasn’t going to allow his real reason become public, and he knew that the best way to convince someone of a falsehood was to deny it.

His comment had the effect he intended — Dorian _tsk_ ed. “Methinks you doth protest too much, my friend. Although the two of you did put on quite a lovely show for us. It could only have been improved had the two of you been shirtless.”

Alistair’s eyes widened at that, and he felt his cheeks heat. Which of course provided Dorian with more ammunition.

“You’re nearly as bad as he is!” Dorian laughed. “Must be the Templar-trained Chantry boys in you, getting flustered at the thought of a little skin.”

It wasn’t the thought of sparring shirtless that had Alistair blushing. No, it was the thought of _Cullen_ shirtless, with a wooden sword, sparring with him when they were younger. Alistair had lost that bout not due to failing to guard his right, but because he’d been distracted by the way Cullen had so gracefully moved, the way his muscles rippled when he struck, the way his hair got all rumpled as the sweat rolled down his face.

Back then, Alistair had been confused by his thoughts for days after Cullen had beaten him soundly and then helped him up with a concerned frown and a kind smile. Years later — not until after they’d rescued him at Kinloch Hold — Alistair finally understood those feelings for what they were. The day he realized he was attracted to both men and women was a momentous one, and yet somehow not momentous at all, as if he’d always known somehow.

The image of present-day Cullen shirtless, with a longsword, sparring with him like this morning, gracefully moving, muscles rippling under a decade’s worth of scars, hair reverting to its natural curl from the sweat, trouncing him and flashing him that smirk that looked so good on him these days, surprised Alistair, though not unpleasantly. Cullen was an objectively attractive man, but even if he was interested in men — which Alistair knew for nearly certain he was not — and even if Alistair was looking for some sort of dalliance right now — which he was decidedly not — they were friends. And Alistair made a point never to have sex with friends. He had so few of them these days that even if his policy hadn’t been formed in the crucible of a destroyed friendship with a fellow Warden a year or two after the Blight — which it most definitely had — he would never risk his relationship with Cullen over a bit of lust. He valued their friendship too much.

Still, there was little harm in admiring the imaginary view.

“Ah, yes, you understand the allure, as well,” said Dorian.

“Objectively,” Alistair said, face on fire, “yes. But objectification is dehumanizing. Our eyes are up here.”

He pointed two fingers at his own eyes and managed a grin, in spite of his still burning cheeks.

“Spoilsport.” Dorian pouted. “Always ruining my fun with silly notions like respect!”

Alistair didn’t want to open himself up to more teasing, but might as well try to get something useful from this conversation. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Cullen? Not recently. Have you checked his office?”

Alistair smacked his forehead. “Of course! How could I forget to check the most _obvious place first_?” He punctuated the last few words with a dull glare.

Dorian threw his hands up in surrender. “Don’t take your frustration out on me _._ It’s not my fault he’s likely avoiding you for denying him his victory this morning.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Thanks for nothing, as always, Dorian.”

“You’re welcome,” Dorian said to his back as he headed up the stairs to the third floor, “for the delightful conversation!”

“We must have different definitions of delightful,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was taking the stairs two at a time to speak with someone who could actually help.

 

* * *

 

Alistair slowed and crept up the last five steps, quietly approaching from behind the crazy Chantry sister he’d met in Lothering.

“What can I do for you, Alistair?” Sister Nightingale, as she was now called, spoke without turning around.

He slumped. “How did you know?”

Leliana turned and regarded him with a wry smile. “You mean aside from the fact that you just shouted down the stairs at Dorian? The barbs you traded with Solas not five minutes ago echoed up and around the rotunda. You would do well to remember that aspect of this particular tower.”

“Point taken,” Alistair grumbled. “No need to lecture.”

“I’m afraid I have not seen Cullen recently.” Leliana smirked. “Did you check his office?”

Alistair narrowed his eyes at her. Her smirk widened into a smile.

“Skyhold has been abuzz all day with word of your sparring session this morning.”

“Yes, I’ve heard I lost a lot of people money,” he muttered.

“Word reached the Inquisitor, Josie, and myself before the war council meeting this morning,” Leliana continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “Cullen arrived somewhat disheveled but smiling and, dare I say, downright aglow. None of us could recall him ever looking so awake and chipper at a war council, and we teased him for it.” She grinned. “All he would say was that he’d had an _invigorating_ training session earlier, and then he blushed profusely and rubbed the back of his neck in that adorable way of his.”

The story delighted Alistair — the fact that Cullen had enjoyed their bout as much as he had made something in his chest lighten for reasons he couldn’t understand — but he was no idiot, as much as he often pretended to be. Leliana would not tell him such juicy information without a reason.

So he attempted — poorly, from the look of amusement on her face — to keep his face neutral as he crossed his arms. “Your point?”

Leliana had the gall to fake surprise at his question, placing a hand on her chest in offense that was clearly bullshit. “Must I have a point to inform an old friend that he made someone happy this morning?”

“No, but you always do.”

She let out a single syllable chuckle and dropped the act, looking out the little window nearby and pursing her lips in thought. Alistair knew enough to know this was likely a show for him, as well; the thought that his old friend, who had carried them through the Blight with her optimism, passion, and kindness, was now so cynical and ruthless that she was always playing some form of the Game, even with friends, made his heart ache.

They’d all taken her death hard, but Leliana had loved her; not as a sister, like Alistair had, but as a lover and partner. She’d sobbed herself to sleep in his arms for a week after the archdemon fell, but he’d had his duties to the Wardens and eventually had to bid her goodbye. He couldn’t help but feel that if he’d been around, Leliana might not have lost the beauty of soul that had made the woman who became the Hero of Ferelden fall in love with her.

“You two have been spending a lot of time together of late,” Leliana fake-mused.

“Okay … ?” Alistair dragged out the second syllable into a question. “Cullen and I are old friends.”

Leliana gave him a look somewhere between annoyance and pity. A look that reminded him so much of _her_ that it felt like a shield bash to the face. “We both know that’s not true,” she said softly. “You told us as much when we left the Circle.”

Because of course, in addition to wielding secrets like knives, Sister Nightingale had a memory longer than an Old God’s.

And she apparently wasn’t letting this go. “I seem to recall you saying something like, ‘We weren’t friends because I didn’t really have any of those, but he was kind to me, and a good person.’”

“What a wonderful memory,” he snapped. _That_ hurt. The Leliana he’d known would never be unnecessarily cruel. “ _Do_ you have a point, or are you just throwing my horrible childhood back in my face?”

Regret softened her features. “Alistair —”

“We’re friends now!” He threw his hands up in the air. “Is there a reason, other than the obvious need for you to know everything, that our friendship is any of your business?”

“You have many friends here. Hawke, Varric.” Her voice grew even quieter. “I haven’t seen you in days.”

He snorted. “I didn’t realize three qualified as ‘many’ these days. I have no desire to play third wheel to Hawke and Varric’s masturbatory, unending Kirkwall Appreciation Weeks. And you made it perfectly clear last week that I was distracting you with all my babbling.”

She rolled her eyes at that, which hurt even more. _Stupid Alistair, annoying me again._

“Always so dramatic,” she said. “I told you I needed that particular evening to catch up on work. Last I checked, that wasn’t Common for ‘Never talk to me again.’”

He hated how bitter his laugh was, and how much his heart ached when he said, “I can read between the lines, Leliana. You’re busy and can’t afford to fall behind, and I’m a loud, annoying, useless distraction.”

He also hated how his voice quavered at that last part.

“Alistair.” Her tone was far too much like the old, kind Leliana that he knew she was being sincere. “I have _never_ thought those things. While you can be loud on occasion” — her smile was so sweet and fond that it made him want to weep — “you are far from useless, and I want to catch up with you. I’ve missed you these past years, and no letter can replace that twinkle in your eye when you make a joke, or the way you always remember the best happy memories about her. I am truly sorry that I made you feel that way.”

She wiped her face roughly. Great. He was such a jerk that he made _Sister Nightingale_ cry.

But the guilt was outweighed by the way her words warmed his insides. “I — thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Is that why you were so concerned about me being friends with Cullen?”

It was amazing, really, how quickly Leliana’s eyes could switch from glittering with tears to glittering with the cool, hard indifference of diamonds.

“He’s canceled lunch with you three days in a row now.”

Good, he’d been hoping she’d bring that up. “And I hear today’s was your fault. If you knew we were having lunch, why would you do that? Because you were jealous?”

Damn it. That had come out more harshly than he’d intended, and his guilt flared again, along with not a little bit of fear — she was so scary nowadays. But if his words had hit a sensitive spot, she didn’t show it.

“He canceled lunch today,” she repeated, voice as hard as her eyes, “and here you are, looking for him, wondering if he stood you up a fourth time after he agreed to dinner tonight.”

Any potential response lodged itself in Alistair’s throat. Maybe he _had_ worried that, which was why he’d gone looking for Cullen instead of waiting for who knew how long in his office for him to never show, but —

“That’s not your concern,” he said through gritted teeth.

“No?” she asked, looking him fully in the eyes now, and Alistair knew they’d finally reached the crux of this discussion. “I asked him if he could meet at lunch today, and he immediately agreed. He could have said no, but he did not. He could have said, ‘Sorry, I have a prior engagement, can we meet later?’ But he did not.”

Alistair clenched his fists at his side. “You were testing him? Why in the Maker’s name —”

“There are things you don’t know about Cullen.” The firmness of Leliana’s voice overpowered the anger in his. “He is a good man, and he is working to atone for the sins of his past, but his inner struggles are myriad and painful. He copes by throwing himself into work and pushing people away.” Her countenance and words softened once again, and for a moment she was _his_ Leliana, the wonderful woman he’d fought with during the Blight. “You have been through much, and I know loneliness has plagued you these past years, particularly since the Wardens” — the word was icy on her tongue — “turned on you. You have always loved easily, Alistair, and I would not have you hurt because your heart craves companionship in a person who cannot offer it.”

Alistair stared at her a moment, processing her words, before breaking her gaze as he blinked tears from his eyes. He wanted to be angry at her for meddling, for not just coming to him, but he couldn’t. She might have changed in the decade since the Blight ended — in her defense, so had he — but she had, as always, been trying to protect him, in her own seriously dysfunctional way. And he couldn’t deny that she was right in her assessment of him. He was lonely, and he’d always been too quick to trust.

There was a reason he was in the position he was now, after all. He’d found family in the Wardens — again — and he’d been betrayed — again — by leadership that should have been a shield at his back. Andraste’s blood, they’d even branded him a traitor — _again_. Only this time … this time he didn’t have a ragtag band of companions to keep him from falling into despair.

That said — “I am not a child, Leliana. I don’t need you to protect me from my own terrible judgment, okay?”

“You are anything but a child.” Then, without warning, she pulled him into a tight hug, and the way it soothed him only served to highlight the fact that he hadn’t been touched so tenderly in … Maker, too many years. “And _you_ are not the problem, Alistair. It’s the world that’s gone crooked.”

He rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes a moment, as much to hold back more pathetic tears as to revel in the fact that at least someone believed he wasn’t to blame for everything awful to happen in his life.

Inhaling a shaky breath, he broke the hug. “I appreciate your concern.” He pulled away and wiped a hand down his face to gather himself. “But you give him too little credit. Did you ever think that maybe all that shit he’s dealing with is why we’re friends? Maker knows I have plenty of my own issues. It’s something we have in common. And for the record —”

He turned on his heel to pace away. Now he was angry again — this time on Cullen’s behalf.

“He approached me. A couple days after I arrived, we were in the Rest, and that Maker-damned song was driving me insane. When I left, he followed. Invited me up for a drink and told me that if I needed to talk, he was there.” He laughed bitterly, which was happening far too often these days. His chest ached when he did, but he just didn’t have many real laughs left, and he’d never been good at faking anything. “I’m not the precious little flower you think I am. I almost told him to shove it because I couldn’t imagine why the Commander of the Inquisition would give a damn what I needed unless he was trying to get drunken information out of me.”

Leliana was silent, and when he turned to her, she cast her gaze around the empty room, settling on the railings and what lay beyond and below, before nodding as if to say, _Continue_. A warning about eavesdroppers, but she was still, after all this time, an excellent listener. For her sake, he decided to ignore the cynical comment in his head about how useful that probably was in her current job.

He nodded, and in lowering his voice he lowered his anger, as well. “Cullen was never any good at lying, and that dumb neck-rubbing thing is still his biggest tell, and I realized he was just trying to be nice. So I followed him up to his office, where he offered me some terrible Orlesian booze, and we just … talked. I told him about the Calling, and he told me about quitting lyrium, and —”

“He told you he stopped taking lyrium?” Leliana asked the question with such quiet urgency that Alistair wondered if he’d screwed up — typical of him — and told her something he shouldn’t have.

“Uh, well …” He’d never been any good at lying, either, and as if the mention made it so, he rubbed the back of his own neck in Cullen’s nervous gesture. “I might have misheard —”

“I already knew,” she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I am surprised he told you.”

Once again, though he knew she didn’t mean it that way, her bluntness hurt. “I know I’m annoying, but I am capable of being a good enough friend that people confide in me.”

She shook her head. “You do not surprise me, as you have always been easy to talk to.” Smirking, she added, “If you were not as terrible at lying as he is, you’d have made a good agent. No one, save Morrigan, can resist your charm.”

He rolled his eyes, but he knew she knew him well enough to tell he was pleased at the compliment.

“I am surprised at Cullen,” she said. “He is … private. And very proud. You are one of only four people who know.”

Alistair blinked. “I am?”

Leliana nodded. “Cassandra, myself, the Inquisitor … and now you.” She lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

Alistair could tell she was recalculating. She’d thought whatever friendship he had with Cullen was superficial and one-sided, but ha, turned out Cullen liked him, too. And … Maker’s breath, Cullen trusted him. A _lot_. Alistair had known his quitting lyrium wasn’t public knowledge, but he hadn’t known exactly how not public it was. Before, he’d been flattered that Cullen had shared his struggle. Now … he didn’t know. _Honored_ was the only word that even began to cover it.

“I’ll just stand here.” He crossed his arms and smirked. “Waiting for your apology.”

Leliana looked at him, but either didn’t hear or didn’t register what he’d said. “I received a letter from Zevran a few weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Alistair’s stomach did a few flips for some reason. The sudden change in topic was suspicious, at the very least. “How is he? Taken over the Crows yet?”

“A work in progress.” She waved a hand, as if an old friend single-handedly taking down the largest murder organization in Thedas was merely an afterthought. “He found out the Wardens had branded you a traitor and asked if I’d heard from you.”

Alistair opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then said, “Oh,” again. Smooth.

“I told him we knew where you were and would track you down,” she said with a soft smile. “I could tell he was worried for you.”

“That’s … nice.”

Zev was — well. _First love_ made their relationship sound naive and romantic, but _just sex_ was too flippant for what they had. They could never be together, they’d both known that from the beginning; even if they didn’t die before the end of the Blight, their lives were too different. But a part of Alistair would always love Zevran for what he showed him — about the world, about people, about sex, about friendship, and yes, about love. His love for Zev was an old, comfortable thing, not even romantic anymore, that he kept deep in his heart. It was no longer painful. Just fond memories tainted with the sadness of too much time and distance.

It had been a few years since Alistair had written him. He felt a little bad about that now.

“I do apologize,” Leliana said, bringing Alistair out of his reverie, “for misunderstanding your … _friendship_ with Cullen.”

Uh-oh. He did not like the sound of that at _all_.

“What?” he demanded. “What are you thinking in that secret-keeping head of yours?”

But Leliana merely smiled — this one was soft, and it seemed genuine, but honestly, that made Alistair even more nervous.

“You have always loved easily,” she said once again, and her tone was achingly familiar — gentle and kind and far too understanding, like when he’d first met her. “Guard your heart.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “What? This isn’t —”

Flashes of Cullen sparring shirtless, then and now, came to Alistair’s mind unbidden. But that was just physical. Cullen was an objectively attractive man, and Alistair could admire that without it becoming —

Maker’s breath, they were friends!

“Leliana, I’m not — we’re not —” he sputtered, unable to form coherent thoughts with those images in his head, much less actual sentences.

“You have no need to defend yourself, nor anything about which to be defensive. I merely warn you to tread carefully.”

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. “Why do I always end conversations with you more confused than when I started?”

Leliana showed him her mysterious Nightingale smirk. “Because I know you too well and tell you things you can’t even admit to yourself yet?”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Pride is a demon, you know.”

“Knowing and valuing one’s skills is not pride,” she said simply. “It is self-worth.”

He sighed. “You don’t know where Cullen might be?”

“At the risk of invoking your wrath, I would advise checking his office again.” She smirked yet again at his eye roll. “He has likely returned since you left to look for him.”

What a pointless little detour. He may as well have waited in Cullen’s office.

“I’d better go, then. Good night.”

He headed for the stairs.

“Alistair.”

He turned.

“Self-worth is not pride,” his old friend said gently. “Nor is its lack humility. You are a good man, and worthy of love and friendship. Anyone who cannot see that does not deserve you.”

Throat stinging, vision blurry, he nodded, speechless for a few moments.

Then he flashed her a grin. “I’ll be by to annoy you tomorrow.”

An old, familiar laugh — one he hadn’t heard since the archdemon fell — followed him down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Instead of going directly to Cullen’s office, Alistair made a quick detour through the kitchens. He refilled his waterskin, then snagged a basket and filled it with delicious, filling things — bread, apples, some meat pies from lunch, and, of course, cheese. Four different types of cheese, to be specific. One was Orlesian, but since Cullen was likely neck-deep in paperwork at his desk having forgotten about dinner, Alistair figured it might come in handy. On the off-chance that Cullen hadn’t forgotten and had ordered some nice dinner prepared for them, well, he could keep the snacks for when he forgot to eat.

As he approached from the bridge that led back to Arrogant Egghead’s rotunda, Alistair noticed Cullen’s office was dim. The sun had nearly set by now, so either Cullen had returned and hadn’t realized his candles had burnt so low — not unheard of — or he wasn’t there.

Alistair’s Warden senses told him something wasn’t right. He knocked on the open door and entered.

The office was empty.

As before, all the doors were open, all the curtains closed, and as predicted, the candles had burnt so low they were barely flickering. Alistair set his basket on the desk and fixed both issues, closing and barring two of the three doors and merely closing the third before lighting fresh candles.

“Cullen?” Alistair called to the room. Just as earlier in the day, nothing responded.

His heart pounded now. Something was definitely wrong. Cullen didn’t leave his office unless he was meeting someone else or training, and since the yard below was quiet and Leliana would have known of any meetings …

Where in the Maker’s name was he?

Alistair’s gaze landed on the ladder that led to Cullen’s quarters. He had never been up there, but perhaps Cullen had gone up to change or his headache had worsened until he needed to lay down, and then he’d fallen asleep or lost track of time?

Surely it wouldn’t be considered an invasion of privacy to check.

So, after a few seconds’ hesitation, he climbed the ladder and poked his head through the floor.

The smell hit him first — stale vomit and sweat. But what he saw made his heart stutter in his chest.

A prone form lay on the floor amid puddles of vomit.

And Cullen wasn’t moving.


	2. Fuck Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair discovers that Cullen's lyrium withdrawal is so much worse than mere headaches, and when Cullen begs for help in his weakened state, Alistair can't — could never — refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: intense descriptions of lyrium withdrawal, (very) brief mentions of suicide ideation.
> 
> Previously in _Just Friends_ :  
> So, after a few seconds’ hesitation, Alistair climbed the ladder and poked his head through the floor.  
>   
> The smell hit him first — stale vomit and sweat. But what he saw made his heart stutter in his chest.  
>   
> A prone form lay on the floor amid puddles of vomit.  
>   
> And Cullen wasn’t moving.

“Cullen!”

Alistair scrambled up the last few rungs of the ladder and raced across the loft, skidding to Cullen’s side on his knees.

Gently and quickly, he rolled Cullen onto his back.

But Cullen lay still, his eyes closed, his skin clammy and so pale as to be almost grey.

“Cullen?”

He shook Cullen gently by the shoulders, and his head lolled, slumping lifeless to the side like a doll’s. For one horrific, eternal moment, Alistair feared the worst, and a grief unlike he’d ever felt before — not with Duncan, not with the Wardens, not with _her_ — threatened to drag him into an abyss he knew he’d never escape.

“Maker, no …” Alistair breathed, voice trembling into an unsteady whimper. “Cullen?”

The loft sat silent and still for the length of several ages.

Then Cullen convulsed in a violent shiver, and Alistair nearly burst into tears, crying out in relief.

“Cullen, can you hear me?”

Alistair felt his forehead — sweaty and feverish, but his limbs were ice.

Cullen moaned, which Alistair took as the beautiful sign of life it was, in spite of its thready whine.

His initial relief at Cullen’s sign of life evaporated, and Alistair froze. What was he supposed to do? He knew the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal — intense thirst, coldness in the limbs (particularly hands and feet), weepiness, irritability, headaches.

And pain. Excruciating pain.

He knew all this because it was taught in Templar training. Before even giving you your first philter, the Chantry bastards stressed how much a Templar needed lyrium to perform his duties (a blatant lie); then they scared recruits shitless by detailing the horrors of having lyrium taken away. Just another way they used indoctrination and fear to keep Templars in check.

What Alistair didn’t know, what even the Chantry probably didn’t know — or care enough to find out — was how to counter lyrium withdrawal.

Maker, how long had Cullen been up here? Since Alistair had arrived for dinner the first time? Before? Had Cullen been suffering alone while Alistair sniped at Solas and bantered with Dorian and had a far too personal discussion with Leliana? If, Andraste forbid, Cullen —

He would never, ever forgive himself.

Another shiver wracked Cullen’s body, and the last thing Alistair wanted to do was leave again. But Cullen needed help. Cassandra or Leliana would know what to do. Or Dorian, or Vivienne, or maybe even Solas.

Anyone but him.

Alistair took Cullen’s face in his hands. “Cullen, if you can hear me, I’m going to get help, okay?”

Cullen moaned, and his eyes fluttered.

“You’re going to be fine,” Alistair said, every part of him shaking, not even believing his own words. “I’ll be back soon. With someone who can help.”

He gave Cullen’s hands a squeeze and moved to leave.

But something ice cold brushed his arm, stopping him.

“No …” Cullen shook his head — or rather, his head rocked back and forth — and his eyes opened for the first time.

They were dull, cloudy, unfocused. Nothing remained of the spark Alistair had seen during their sparring session this morning. But they were open, and Cullen was breathing, though each breath was shallow and ragged.

“Shh, Cullen, it’s —”

“Alistair?” Cullen’s brow furrowed.

Alistair didn’t know whether Cullen could see him or merely hear him, but Maker’s breath, his voice sounded so weak and confused and small that Alistair’s heart nearly shattered.

“Yes, I’m here.”

Cullen’s hand clumsily pawed at him, and Alistair took it in his own.

Cullen squeezed it. “Real?”

Holy mother of Andraste. _Hallucinations_. How could he have forgotten one of the worst symptoms?

Maker fuck the Chantry.

 Alistair flashed his best grin. “I certainly hope so,” he said, vision blurring. “Otherwise you need to put in a request for some better hallucinations.”

Through his shivers, Cullen actually smiled at that, and though it was weak it was perhaps the most beautiful thing Alistair had ever seen. Thank the Maker.

“F-funny,” Cullen said, teeth chattering. “Real.” His eyes seemed to clear a little at the declaration, and he squeezed Alistair’s hand again.

Heartened and determined to keep Cullen in the present, Alistair said, in mock-outrage, “Your hallucinations aren’t even funny? What in the name of Andraste is the point?”

A look of exhausted resignation passed over Cullen’s face, and Alistair was dismayed when his eyes drooped closed.

“Penance,” Cullen whispered.

Alistair barely had time to despair at that answer when Cullen convulsed, crying out in pain.

His heart finally shattered as the pain seemed to wash over Cullen in wave after wave. He whispered soothing words, unsure whether Cullen could hear him or not. When the attack finally subsided, Cullen went limp with a sigh, pressing his cheek into Alistair’s hand, which still cradled his face.

“Still here,” said Alistair, throat tight. “Still real.”

Cullen, eyes still closed, only leaned further into Alistair’s hand.

“I need to go get you help,” Alistair said, stroking his thumb along Cullen’s cheek without thinking.

Cullen’s eyes snapped open. “No,” he rasped.

Alistair’s throat burned. _Private and very proud_ , Leliana had said. “Let me go find Cassandra. I’ll be back.”

Cullen let his eyes droop closed wearily. “She can’t help.”

“Then tell me what will!”

“Waiting,” Cullen breathed. “It will pass.”

Vision blurring, Alistair’s jaw hit the floor; for perhaps the first time in his life, he was absolutely speechless.

Cullen smirked. “What —” He convulsed in another wave of pain, then continued with a gasp, “No jokes?”

Shame filled Alistair, though for his earlier jokes or his lack of one now, he wasn’t sure. His chuckle came out weak, embarrassed. “None that seem appropriate right now.”

Cullen opened his eyes and actually managed to cock a wry eyebrow. “Trouble performing under pressure?”

Alistair let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. The sheer strength of will Cullen displayed was admirable and affecting. He knew from personal experience how difficult it was to joke when things looked bleak, and Cullen was also currently in immense physical pain. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen anything braver.

“See?” he said, showing Cullen a genuine smile through his tears. “You’re funny now. You don’t need me.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed, and he stared at Alistair in silence, eyes as sharp as daggers, for so long that Alistair knew — knew, without the shadow of a doubt — that Cullen Rutherford was overthinking something.

“I —” Cullen grimaced as he convulsed once again in a pain Alistair couldn’t imagine. “I learned it from you.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Alistair was absolutely speechless. His heart said enough, though — it seemed to stutter to a stop at Cullen’s words.

Another long wave of pain wracked Cullen’s body, and Alistair soothed him like he had before, with his hand gripping Cullen’s, his thumb stroking Cullen’s cheek, and repeating, “I’m right here,” in a gentle whisper until it subsided.

This wave must have been especially painful, because when Cullen reopened his eyes, they were watery, and his breaths came in ragged gasps.

“Took me a decade to remember,” Cullen rasped, seeming to force the words through gritted teeth, “how much your jokes … helped during training … Kept me from driving … myself crazy …” He panted, taking a few moments to catch his breath while Alistair’s brain remained frozen. “I keep wondering if you’d been at Kinloch, or in Kirkwall …” Exhausted, he let his head fall to the side against Alistair’s palm once again, eyes fluttering closed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have let things get so bad.”

Alistair cradled Cullen’s face, continuing to stroke his cheek and attempting to blink away his own tears. Cullen’s words were more than enough to make him teary under normal circumstances, but pushing through such pain to ensure Alistair knew what his jokes had meant, how he’d helped Cullen all those years ago in training, had him blubbering like a baby. Fortunately, Cullen was too tired to notice.

“Don’t get too sentimental on me, Rutherford,” Alistair said, with a surreptitious sniff. “It’ll throw off our whole dynamic. Now,” he added before Cullen could respond, “while you might think _you_ deserve to writhe on this Maker-forsaken frozen stone floor, all those years in the Chantry and a decade of fighting darkspawn have killed my knees, so let’s get off it, huh?”

“Tried.” Cullen shook his head, avoiding Alistair’s gaze. “I can’t …”

Cullen’s voice broke, and only now did Alistair take in the rest of their surroundings — the bracers on the floor, a puddle of water, and the remains of a broken jug, none of them close enough for Cullen to reach from his current position. Putting the pieces together (ha), he pictured what had likely happened — Cullen had attempted to remove his armor, but only gotten as far as his bracers before he’d collapsed (from the effort of climbing that ridiculous ladder, maybe), knocking everything from the table near his bed, including a jug of water. In his weakened state, his heavy armor likely kept him trapped on the floor.

“Let’s get all this armor off, then.” Alistair began to unbuckle the greaves from Cullen’s legs, but continued to talk, keeping his voice as light as possible. “You know — and this might be a crazy suggestion — since your castle is on top of a mountain and heavily fortified, maybe you could, I don’t know, _not_ wear full armor from dawn until dusk?”

Cullen still shivered, and at one point winced when Alistair accidentally jarred his leg, but he had recovered enough to manage an impressively annoyed eye roll. “I refuse to train recruits without protection. They barely know which end to grip a sword by.”

As he removed them, Alistair placed Cullen’s boots and each piece of armor into a small pile, away from the water and vomit; he’d clean and store it all properly once Cullen no longer needed him. “And how much of your day, exactly, is spent training recruits?”

“Enough.”

“Uh-huh.” Alistair moved to unbuckle the breastplate. “But presumably not all day, what with the meetings and the messages and the memos —”

“Reports,” Cullen corrected, and he even leveled a glare at Alistair. “ _Memos_ are what nobles call their correspondence to make them sound more important.”

“Oh, excuse me, Commander, for using such an offensive term. I never meant to insult your important work by comparing it to a noble’s.”

Cullen snorted, and in spite of the sass and excessive sarcasm, Alistair was pleased that he seemed more relaxed and aware of what was happening around him.

But damn, Alistair had forgotten how many buckles full plate armor required. This was why he preferred mail — not as much protection, but lighter and far easier to remove. “Okay, I’m lifting your breastplate now.”

Cullen groaned in relief as Alistair removed the heavy piece of metal and set it aside. At first, Alistair thought Cullen was relishing the lack of weight pressing down upon his chest, but when the plate was out of the way, he understood that at least part had to do with the fact that Cullen’s shirt was completely soaked with sweat.

“Maker’s breath, Cullen, you’re burning up!”

Cullen teeth chattered. “C-cold.”

In his head, Alistair cursed the Chantry with every horrible slur he knew. But out loud, he said, “I know. Let’s get you into bed. I’m sorry if this hurts.”

He placed Cullen’s arm around his shoulder and hauled him upright. Cullen cried out and then fell silent, paling so rapidly that Alistair worried he would lose consciousness again.

Alistair stopped to let him rest, leaning him against the bed in a sitting position. “Still with me, Rutherford?”

A bead of sweat rolled down Cullen’s face, but a little color had returned to his cheeks within only a few seconds.

“’M fine. Stay here,” Cullen said, right before his eyes rolled back in his head and he listed to the side.

Alistair caught him before he fell, cupping and even slapping Cullen’s cheek with his palm. “Oh, yes, clearly. Perfectly fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Cullen, come on. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Cullen answered, eyes still closed, “Two.”

Which was, somehow, correct. The bastard. “Your eyes aren’t even open!”

Cullen smirked. “Everyone always holds up two.”

“You know, you’re a real smart ass when you’re delirious.” If he was honest with himself, Alistair kind of liked it. “You don’t happen to have any special memories associated with this shirt, do you?”

Brow furrowing, Cullen said, “No. Why?”

Alistair ripped the filthy, drenched shirt right down the middle and slipped it off Cullen’s shoulders and arms. “I’m afraid it didn’t survive. Oops.”

For a moment, Alistair’s gaze locked on Cullen’s bare, glistening chest. Somehow it was even more impressive than back in training, though its surface was littered with too many scars, several of which looked to have been life-threatening. The thought of Cullen prone and bleeding from even one of them made Alistair’s stomach roil, and he barely restrained himself from tracing a particularly nasty one that stretched horizontally across Cullen’s belly. Maker, that must have gutted him. Literally.

Then reality rushed back in and Alistair felt immediately ashamed. He was supposed to be helping, not ogling. But Dorian had been correct — Cullen was a very attractive man, and Alistair was only human.

“Did you just … rip my shirt?” Cullen asked. “You could have pulled it over my head …”

“Less hassle,” Alistair said. _And less painful for you_ , he did not say. “One more time, and then you can rest all you like, okay?”

Cullen murmured something, but Alistair had already slung his arm over his own shoulder again and heaved. Cullen groaned, and his feet scrabbled for a moment before he managed to get them underneath him, and that was enough for Alistair to sit down him.

Cullen sighed, and by the time Alistair had lifted his legs so that he was lying fully on the bed, his face had actually relaxed into something almost restful.

“Better?” Alistair asked, pulling blankets up and over his pants — which he’d decided, for both their sakes, to leave on.

“Than the floor?” Cullen’s lips quirked. “Yes. I —”

He finally opened his eyes, and there were so many emotions written clearly across that normally stoic face that Alistair felt uncomfortable, like an intruder into Cullen’s private thoughts.

“Thank you,” Cullen rasped.

Alistair looked away, busying himself with the blankets. “Do you want these, or …?”

“Please.”

Alistair was simultaneously disappointed and gladdened by the answer; he didn’t need any more temptations. Eyes closed once again, Cullen feebly moved his arms to help, and Alistair allowed him to readjust after he’d done most of the heavy lifting, as it were.

But Cullen still shivered.

“Do you have any others?” Alistair asked, because, now that he had attention to spare, the room did feel rather drafty. He glanced around to see where the air might be coming from and nearly choked. “Uh, Cullen, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have a giant hole in your roof.”

“Your powers of observation astound me,” Cullen murmured, and Alistair couldn’t help but smile at that still oddly new dry sense of humor.

“Is there a reason you haven’t done something about that?”

Cullen shrugged underneath his blankets. “Resources are limited, and I can endure.”

“Can you? Sure. But should you?” Alistair shook his head. “One day your noble stupidity is going to get you killed. Now, again — do you have any more blankets, you _idiot_ , and where are they?”

“Chest.” Cullen rolled his head in the direction of a trunk that, Alistair assumed, held the entirety of his belongings, before muttering something else.

Alistair threw the lid open and found several more blankets — Maker, Cullen had enough here to keep a Tevinter warm in a Fereldan winter — and began to spread them over the bed.

“What?” he asked absently, seething at Cullen’s deliberate, idiotic, noble, almost martyr-like self-sacrifice as he unfurled several more blankets in the vain hope of warming Cullen’s unnaturally cold limbs.

“That’s _Commander_ Idiot, thank you,” Cullen murmured.

“Okay, you know what? I’m revoking your joking privileges until you can be more responsible with them.”

Cullen huffed a weak chuckle. “Because you are the king of responsible humor.”

“Not a king. Or a prince,” Alistair automatically responded. He took in Cullen’s still shivering, sweating, too-pale face — the only part of him visible now — and said, “I have my waterskin downstairs, and some food. You should drink something, and maybe eat if you can?”

Cullen shook his head. “Won’t keep it down.” Alistair had only enough time to fret about that when Cullen’s eyes snapped open and he asked, frowning, “Did you bring food?”

“Just a little,” Alistair admitted. “I couldn’t find you, so I went to see if Lels knew if you were in a meeting, but we got caught up in conversation, and on my way back I grabbed something in case you’d …” He shrugged. “You know. Forgotten to eat. Like normal.”

To Alistair’s utter shock, Cullen’s face crumpled, eyes filling with tears that threatened to fall. “I didn’t forget, Alistair, I swear. My headache was worsening and I wanted to rest before you came by …”

Large tears streaked down the cheeks of the always-stoic Cullen Rutherford, and he sucked in a breath that sounded too close to a sob for Alistair’s liking. “Right after I left you I realized I should have asked Leliana to meet at another time. I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to think that I don’t value your friendship because I do, and I —”

Knowing he needed to do _something_ before Cullen made himself sick(er), Alistair sat on the edge of the bed, his hip resting against Cullen’s.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay.” Once again, he cupped Cullen’s cheek in his palm, using his thumb to wipe away the tears he’d never, even when they were boys, seen Cullen shed. “Shh. I know you didn’t forget, Cullen.”

_Fucking_ lyrium, making this brave, proud, private man weepy over something so small.

“I’m — sorry —” Cullen managed between gasping breaths.

“Just breathe,” Alistair said. “In … out …” He demonstrated, and Cullen followed his example for several breaths in a row. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Calm down. I know —” His voice gave out for a reason he didn’t fully understand, but he repeated the sentiment without any qualifiers. “I know. Just breathe for me.”

Cullen let his eyes fall closed and, to his credit, breathed deeply, if shakily, until he was calm once again. While Alistair continued to soothe him, he ran his fingers through Cullen’s curly, sweat-damp hair; even as he did, he knew it was too intimate, but he also could tell that Cullen needed it, that it _helped_ , and he decided he didn’t give a damn if it was improper or too familiar for a friendship between two men.

“There you go,” Alistair said softly, stroking Cullen’s hair as his face and breathing rhythm relaxed into sleep. “Get some rest,” he whispered at the handsome face that seemed truly peaceful for the first time since Alistair had climbed up the ladder, and for who knew how long before that.

When Cullen didn’t stir for several minutes, Alistair withdrew and stood, preparing to rack Cullen’s armor and clean up the mess of water and vomit and broken jug pieces.

But before he could fully turn away, an ice cold hand grabbed his own.

Cullen’s eyes, now wide open and glassy, were as cloudy and dull as they had been when Alistair found him senseless on the floor, but they held something else. Something that broke Alistair’s heart to see in those beautiful amber eyes because the last time he’d seen it was a decade ago in Kinloch Hold.

Desperation.

“Don’t go, Alistair,” Cullen begged. “Please stay. I need —”

Alistair immediately sat down again, clutching Cullen’s hand in his own and running his fingers through his hair. Cullen sighed, eyes fluttering closed in something like appreciation, or perhaps ecstasy, and Alistair felt his body relax.

Alistair smiled, his own vision blurring at Cullen’s utter vulnerability. He would never have left Cullen alone after such an episode, even in sleep, but now?

“An archdemon couldn’t keep me away,” he whispered.

Cullen’s eyes didn’t open again, but a smile graced his lips as he finally seemed to drift to sleep.

Alistair didn’t move until Cullen’s grip on his hand loosened. Then he quickly cleaned up the room and the floor, ran down to grab the waterskin and basket of food he’d left on Cullen’s desk, and returned, sitting in a chair at Cullen’s side and holding his hand so he wouldn’t be alone when he woke.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Cullen didn’t remain relaxed, asleep, or silent for long.

Alistair could only look on helplessly as, in spite of the blankets, Cullen shivered as though he were lost in the Frostbacks, hip deep in  snow and wearing only his smallclothes —

Nope, no thinking about Cullen in smallclothes, there lay danger.

Cullen tossed and turned, seemingly unable to get comfortable; often he cringed or groaned in pain, and Alistair wondered how much pain he was in regularly and if there was anything at all that could be done about that.

As for Cullen actually getting any rest? Over the course of several hours, Alistair had discerned that when Cullen was some form of awake, he tossed and turned and occasionally made a pained sound. But when he was asleep — Maker, that was worse to watch than the semi-conscious state in which Alistair had found him earlier.

Because Cullen talked in his sleep. Alistair had once known this, having occasionally roomed with him during training — a couple times when traveling and once for a week while the Grand Cleric visited and the recruits had been shuffled to make space for her — but he was reminded of it tonight in the worst way possible.

When Cullen had first told Alistair about stopping lyrium, he mentioned that lyrium was a sleep aid, and that it kept nightmares at bay. He’d been unable to put into words what happened without lyrium, but he’d implied that sleep came rarely, and what did come was fitful at best.

Tonight was far from “best.”

Though Alistair didn’t always understand what happened in Cullen’s nightmares, he didn’t need to; the agony in his words and voice was far more than enough.

After a while, Alistair began to recognize, if not specific nightmares, then categories of them. In some, which sent chills down Alistair’s spine, Cullen begged for something to stop or not to begin. In others, he apologized over and over and over to many different people, some of whom Alistair knew at least by name — Mia and Branson were two of Cullen’s siblings, and a few, such as Aveline, had been companions of Hawke in Kirkwall. Most of the names, however, he didn’t recognize. Were they fellow Templars? Mages? Friends who’d been killed in the Chantry explosion or at Kinloch Hold? Alistair could only guess.

The final, most common, and most heartbreaking category of Cullen’s nightmares seemed to consist of him either reciting portions of the Chant or bidding someone to leave with increasing desperation. Alistair wished he didn’t know the details of those.

Unfortunately, he’d been present for the real thing — or at least part of it.

“Leave me,” Cullen moaned, breathing far too fast. “Begone, demon!”

Alistair winced; that was nearly verbatim what Cullen had said to Alistair and his companions when they’d found him in Kinloch Hold. As if conjured by those words, the room manifested in his head as it had then.

She’d saved them from the sloth demon — because she’d been far stronger and smarter than the rest of them — and he, Leliana, and Wynne followed her into the next room. The first thing that had hit Alistair was the smell; rotting corpses and blood covered literally every surface, and a lone man knelt, trapped inside a transparent magical barrier. A man who seemed familiar, but that deep voice should have been stronger, more dignified and righteous.

For a moment, Alistair had, like Cullen, worried that this was a trick of the Fade, but the horror he’d felt at seeing Cullen Rutherford in such a wretched state had been far worse than anything the Goldanna demon had evoked.

“Leave me, demon!” Cullen had sobbed. “Begone!”

Alistair’s chest had ached for the steady, faithful boy he’d known. “Cullen?” he’d whispered in disbelief and fear and grief, reaching out to comfort his old schoolmate before Wynne jerked his hand away from the magical barrier.

“I will not yield!” Cullen cried now, dragging Alistair from the past into the frighteningly familiar present. “Leave me, demon!”

Alistair’s chest ached for the strong, faithful Commander he’d recently befriended. “Cullen?” he whispered in empathy and fear and sorrow, reaching out to shake his new friend awake before he jerked his hand away from Cullen’s thrashing.

“Please,” Cullen begged. “If anything in you is human, kill me now and stop this game!”

Alistair sucked in a sharp breath at those words just as Cullen gasped and jolted awake.

Cullen searched the room, panting, eyes clouded with fear; when they finally settled on Alistair, they widened, and their owner scurried backward on his elbows.

“Shh.” Alistair held his hands up, barely refraining from reaching out, which would only scare Cullen more. “It’s okay. You were having a nightmare. You’re safe here.”

Cullen, stock still on his elbows but tensed to move if necessary, let his eyes roam again, though for confirmation of Alistair’s claims or proof of his own doubts, Alistair was unsure.

“Cullen,” Alistair said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “We’re in your room above your office in Skyhold in the Frostback Mountains. You’re Commander of the Inquisition.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Cullen fell back onto the pillows and buried his hands in his hair. He shook his head back and forth, murmuring tearfully, “No, no, no, I can’t be …”

“You are and you can,” Alistair attempted to soothe. “You’re safe here in Skyhold.”

“No.” Cullen’s pants quickly morphed into sobs. “I can’t, I need it, I _need_ it …”

Alistair’s stomach soured; there was no need to ask what Cullen needed. “No,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You’re all right.”

Cullen’s head snapped in his direction, revealing bloodshot eyes, a face splotchy from crying, and an expression that Alistair had seen in the mirror too many times in his life to not understand — the horrific combination of shame, regret, and failure.

“Please,” Cullen begged. The tearful, childlike fear in his voice punched Alistair in the gut. “I can’t do this. The Inquisition needs — I should be taking it!” He gripped his head with both hands, as if to squeeze away the pain. “I should be taking it,” he repeated again and again. “I should be taking it, the Inquisition deserves better, I need it …”

“I don’t have any,” Alistair said in lieu of a straightforward refusal; the last thing he wanted to do was upset Cullen more. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s plenty around Skyhold,” Cullen said, far too eagerly for Alistair’s liking. Those amber eyes glittered with a greed that ran counter to everything Cullen was as he rattled off locations. “The Templars’ lyrium is kept under lock and key with the requisition officer, and Rylen approves access. The mages’ stock is much less guarded and kept in the hold in the tower. The undercroft contains a potion station for the Inquisitor and her companions, and Dagna has so much raw lyrium she doesn’t know what to do with it all. Any of them would understand …”

Andraste’s flaming sword, this wasn’t passing information the Inquisition’s Commander required to perform his regular duties. At some point Cullen had committed the locations and their respective security to memory, either by intention or mere repetition.

Just how oppressive was lyrium’s grip on him?

“No.” The word felt hard and cruel in Alistair’s mouth, and if Cullen’s sudden cease of chatter — chatter! from Cullen Rutherford — was any indication, it sounded that way, too. “I won’t.”

Cullen gaped at him, betrayed, as if Alistair had denied him water in a desert, or food after starvation, and he barely refrained from taking it back.

Then what little determination remained in Cullen crumbled, and one of the strongest men Alistair had ever known seemed to shatter before his eyes.

Cullen curled into the fetal position, knees to his chest, head buried in his arms, and sobbed, “Then Maker have mercy and kill me now! I cannot endure this torture!”

The words, which Cullen repeated over and over, chilled Alistair to the bone.

Surely no one, not even the four — Cassandra, Leliana, the Inquisitor, and Alistair — who knew his struggle, understood the depths of Cullen’s suffering or just how much his addiction ruled his life.

Cullen continued to murmur, rocking back and forth, though at some point he’d switched to the Chant. Although they’d trained together, Alistair only faintly recognized the verses, but that was hardly a surprise — the last time he’d recited something from the Chant had been at morning prayers the day of the tournament, immediately after which Duncan had conscripted him. Cullen, on the other hand, had somehow retained his faith in the Maker despite the Chantry being directly or indirectly responsible for every awful thing to happen in his life.

_“Though all before me is shadow,_

_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_For there is no Darkness in the Maker’s Light_

_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”_

The reverence of Cullen’s voice while in the depths of his despair brought tears to Alistair’s eyes. The verse was probably from Trials; the comforting, pretty ones — and therefore the only ones Alistair had ever found even remotely appealing — almost always were.

In the height of irony, Cullen’s recitation and repetition of that particular verse served to relax Alistair enough to think straight. It didn’t, however, seem to be helping Cullen. The more he repeated the verse, the more desperate he became. By the time Alistair had calmed enough to focus on him, Cullen nearly whined the verses, his veneration weakening, his determination failing. The statement and faith in the words of the verse turned to begging questions, and the tension in his body — now curled into a tight ball — increased until Alistair worried he might actually harm himself.

Alistair couldn’t tell if Cullen’s pain was emotional, mental, physical, or some combination of the three. But he did recognize the special type of torture Cullen was experiencing. His own mind was working against him, too, in the form of Corypheus’s fake Calling. The beauty of the mesmerizing song drove him to distraction; he teetered on the edge of madness from fighting the urge to answer the Call and go to the Deep Roads to die. He’d found himself in a position — though usually on the ground of a cave somewhere — disturbingly like Cullen’s current one too many sleepless nights to count.

So he did the only thing that had ever worked for him, and which Cullen, in fact, had used to draw him back from the edge of that abyss on the first night they drank together.

He began to hum.

It was an old Chantry tune, one he’d always seemed to know, with no memory of ever having learned it. Their instructors during training had used it as a way to help the recruits learn to meditate properly. While Alistair never had much use for meditation, he found the song both soothing and catchy enough to drown out the cursed song of the archdemons, which called the darkspawn to dig until they were found and released.

Before Alistair had hummed the first phrase, Cullen’s Chanting (heh) ceased. By the time he’d finished the first refrain, Cullen had stilled his frantic rocking, and by the second refrain, he was singing softly right along with Alistair. Alistair had always preferred humming to singing, as his voice had never been anything to write home about (which had always been a hilarious phrase to him, as he’d never had any home to write to, much less anyone who cared what he might have to say).

But _Cullen_. Well. He’d always sung just as loudly as he’d prayed, and the sisters used to say he had “a voice like Andraste’s.” Alistair always assumed that was a good thing, although obviously no one had any way of knowing if the Maker’s Bride could carry a tune.

After several minutes of that lovely baritone (in spite of his current condition) singing along to Alistair’s merely acceptable humming, Cullen had relaxed enough to stretch out on his side, shivering and exhausted but apparently calm.

Now that Cullen was sedate enough not to react violently, Alistair, still humming, couldn’t resist reaching out a hand to rest on one of Cullen’s. Eyes closed, Cullen flinched at the touch before grasping Alistair’s hand a moment later and clutching to it like a lifeline.

Taking such a strong reaction as a sign of Cullen’s need, Alistair stroked Cullen’s cheek and then those damp, unruly curls once again. Cullen, whose singing had now ceased, shivered at the contact and even let out a small moan.

Upon reaching the end of the dozenth refrain, Alistair did not begin anew. Instead he whispered, “You should drink some water. I know you’re thirsty.”

Cullen’s head rocked a couple of times. “Not for water,” he rasped, proving Alistair’s point.

“I know,” Alistair said, continuing to run his fingers through those beautiful, soft blond curls. “But you need fluids.”

“Jug broke,” Cullen murmured, brow furrowing adorably.

“I brought a waterskin.” Alistair removed his fingers from Cullen’s hair to grab the mug he’d earlier filled to the brim with water.

Cullen whimpered at their loss and tightened his already viselike grip on Alistair’s other hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Alistair whispered with a smile, immensely relieved that Cullen was no longer hysterical and not a little pleased that he wouldn’t let him go. In fact, his heart did a little flip that he decided to ignore until he could analyze it later. “But drink some water. You can even grumble and complain the whole time if you want.”

To his credit, Cullen did neither, shifting his elbow under him to push himself up. But he’d barely begun before he collapsed to the bed again, too weak to make it alone.

At that, he did whimper, a pathetic little whine that would made Alistair laugh under any other circumstances.

“Here.” Alistair placed the mug back down on the side table and helped Cullen into a sitting position, back against the headboard, before handing him the mug. “Drink it all for me.”

Cullen’s hands shook rather violently, but he managed to drain he mug without spilling any water. Then he let his head fall back with a small thump against the headboard.

“More?”

Cullen nodded slightly, and Alistair refilled the mug. They repeated the process several more times until the waterskin was almost empty. Cullen refused anything to eat and once again rested his head against the headboard, eyes closed.

“Why are you so quiet?” he asked after a moment.

Alistair blinked. “What?”

“Usually it’s impossible to make you stop talking.”

“Rude.”

Cullen smiled gently before frowning.

“What do you need?” Alistair asked, placing his hand atop Cullen’s once again.

Cullen, as before, grasped it tightly. “Keep talking,” he said. “Please.”

“About what?”

Cullen, eyes still closed, shook his head. “Anything. It …” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Helps.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

Cullen opened one eye, leveling a small glare before closing it again.

Alistair threw up his free hand in surrender. “Just making sure! No healthy, sane person has ever asked me to talk more, so I had to ask.” He rubbed the back of his head roughly. “Do you, uh, have any requests?”

Cullen shook his head again, more weakly this time. He was fading fast. “Surprise me.”

“My unholy love of fine cheeses it is!” Alistair lifted a finger in the air with a flourish, as if he’d just discovered a new source of royal elfroot or something.

Cullen smiled. “I’m sure you’ve eaten all sorts of new cheeses in the past ten years.”

“Oh-ho, have I!” Alistair said, excited. When Cullen squirmed in discomfort, attempting to slide down the headboard into a horizontal position, he leaned forward to assist, never breaking conversational stride. “The first time I set foot in Orlais, not long after the Blight, I tried this amazing soft cheese — they put dough around it and then bake it, so when you cut into it like a loaf of bread, the cheese oozes out, all hot and melty.”

Cullen, who was now lying down, eyes closed, on his side, hummed softly. “I think I saw that in the Winter Palace.” His hand reached out, as if searching for something. “But I wasn’t sure what it was, so I didn’t try it. Sounds good.”

“It was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.”

Alistair took Cullen’s fumbling hand and squeezed it; Cullen let out a soft sigh and with it, most of the remaining tension in his body.

“Too bad it’s Orlesian,” Cullen murmured.

“A travesty, to be sure,” Alistair whispered, shifting his free hand to Cullen’s hair, caressing his cheek as it passed.

Cullen hummed in satisfaction, and against his better judgment, Alistair once again ran his fingers through those blond, curly locks.

Given Leliana’s warning to him earlier, it probably wasn’t the smartest move. Maybe he was even taking advantage of Cullen in this state. But Cullen didn’t seem to mind, and if Alistair enjoyed it, too, what was the harm?

He knew the answer to that, but pushed it to the back of his mind while he babbled about every sort of cheese he’d ever tasted.

 

* * *

 

A loud clang startled Alistair awake.

A hushed “Maker’s breath!” followed.

The light coming in from the roof of Cullen’s loft told Alistair it was past dawn. He was sitting upright in an — in retrospect — uncomfortable chair next to Cullen’s bed. His neck was killing him, and Cullen’s bed was empty.

Running a hand down his face and then up through his hair in an attempt to wake up, he stood and spun around to see where the mild swearing was coming from.

Cullen stood near his armor rack, fully dressed and wearing his greaves and a single bracer. He was currently bending over — with apparent difficulty and a fair bit of angry muttering — to pick up the bracer that had fallen to the floor.

“Let me get that,” Alistair said, rushing to grab it before Cullen fell on his face. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Cullen snatched the bracer from his hands and said, without looking at him, “Because there is work to be done, and I must meet with my lieutenants.”

Alistair watched as Cullen’s trembling fingers struggled to close the bracer’s simple clasp. Maker, as bad as he was shaking, it was a wonder he’d gotten as far as he did.

“Couldn’t you do that without armor?”

“I hold myself to the same standard of dress as I do my soldiers,” Cullen said. His tone wasn’t harsh, exactly, but it wasn’t gentle, either. “Just because you don’t wear your armor around Skyhold does not mean everyone feels the same.”

Alistair blinked at that, thrown by the unnecessary jab, while Cullen turned to the armor rack and reached for his breastplate.

But Alistair recovered quickly enough to beat Cullen to the straps. “How about I help you with that?”

“No, thank you.” Cullen grabbed the straps and, with an effort, pulled the breastplate sideways before stopping with a grunt, the heavy plate hanging half on, half off the rack.

Alistair reached over once again. “Cullen, let me —”

“I am fully capable of putting my armor on by myself,” Cullen snapped, “and have been for more than a decade. You needn’t coddle me like a child. I am not inept.”

He still refused to meet Alistair’s eyes.

“You are far from inept,” Alistair said softly, placing a hand on Cullen’s arm. “I’m just trying to help.”

Cullen jerked his arm away. “I don’t need your help!”

Unsure where this animosity was coming from and more than a little annoyed, Alistair put up his hands in surrender and took several steps back. Then he crossed his arms and watched as Cullen struggled to remove his heavy plate the rest of the way from the rack and lift it over his head.

He did it, but barely. His face was far too pale, his hands shook as they worked the buckles, and at one point he closed his eyes and leaned on the armor rack for several seconds.

“You’re right, you don’t need my help,” Alistair said when Cullen had stubbornly finished dressing. “What you _need_ is to go back to bed and get some actual rest.”

“I’m fine,” Cullen said, wavering just a moment as he put on his fur-mantled coat.

“Clearly.” Alistair shot Cullen his most unimpressed face. “When was the last time you ate? Or drank anything? Because you threw up and sweat out an awful lot last night.”

Cullen took two tries to get his gloves on and twice that to fasten his sword belt, but when finished, he strode confidently to the ladder that led out of his loft, ignoring Alistair.

After making sure Cullen didn’t kill himself going down the ladder, Alistair grabbed the basket of food he’d brought last night and followed him downstairs.

Cullen stood at his desk sorting through correspondence when Alistair approached, placing the basket on one corner. His absolute nonchalance about his own well-being was grating on Alistair’s last nerve.

“Are you going to talk to Cassandra about what happened?” Alistair asked.

Without looking up from the piece of parchment in his hand, Cullen responded, “I don’t see why that would be necessary.”

Alistair threw his arms up. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe so she could make sure you’re okay?”

“As I told you, I’m fine.”

It was that damned word, _fine_ , that set Alistair off.

He slapped his hand onto the parchment Cullen was reading, slamming both loudly to the desk. “Are you being deliberately stupid? Or do you not remember that you had a fucking withdrawal episode last night? I found you barely conscious on the floor, and you spent most of the night either delirious or waking from nightmares in a cold sweat. You could barely put on your armor this morning, and you want me to believe that you’re fine?”

Cullen placed his hands on the pommel of his sword and straightened, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Standing in front of this desk and bearing the full brunt of the Commander of the Inquisition, Alistair understood why everyone in Skyhold headed the opposite direction when Cullen was angry.

“My personal health,” Cullen said, voice barely above a whisper and all the more terrifying for it, “is none of your concern. Nor is it the concern of the Inquisition at large or its gossip mongers, so I would ask you to keep your voice down.”

A stab of guilt shot through Alistair’s gut because Cullen was right — he shouldn’t have been yelling such privileged information where anyone could hear them. But before he could say anything, or even open his mouth to explain that he was just worried for Maker’s sake, Cullen continued.

“And though you may find it difficult to believe, Alistair” — the way Cullen hissed his name stabbed deep into Alistair’s heart — “I have survived far worse in the past without your presence, and I will no doubt continue to do so once you are gone. I am a grown man, and I do not, nor have I ever needed, a nursemaid. So while I appreciate —”

“Save it,” Alistair snapped. “Don’t break one of the Maker’s commandments on my behalf. I thought I was helping my friend, but I should have known better than to meddle in something that isn’t my concern, like the Inquisition Commander’s health and well-being.”

He spun on his heel to the door directly behind him, when Cullen said in that same angry whisper, “I never asked for your help.”

Hand on the door handle, Alistair paused, but did not turn around. “You did, actually.” He spoke softly, matching Cullen’s volume if not tone. “Twice. The first time you begged me not to leave, and the second time you asked me to keep talking as you rested.”

His eyes stung with tears at how Cullen had relaxed at his touch and come back to himself after laughing at his jokes and, after he’d fallen asleep to Alistair’s epic ode to various cheeses, how Cullen hadn’t woken in terror or had a nightmare the rest of the night. How Cullen had almost hysterically assured Alistair that he hadn’t meant to miss their lunches, that he valued their friendship, that he’d stayed sane over the years thanks to Alistair’s own humorous influences. How Cullen had seemed to melt at the feel of Alistair’s fingers in his hair.

And how much all of it had meant to Alistair.

Maker, he was so stupid. Leliana was right. He’d trusted too easily, failed to guard his heart, and look where it had gotten him.

“But you’re right,” he said, emotion too obvious from the rasp in his voice. “You didn’t ask for me to check on you in the first place, or to help you into bed.” He took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. “Next time, I’ll be sure to leave you writhing in agony on the floor. You’ve survived worse, after all.”

And so had he.

He yanked the door open but couldn’t resist one more parting shot. “And since you’re so ‘fine,’ you can train your own damn soldiers. Like you said, you don’t need my help.”

And without looking back, he stormed out, slamming the door loudly behind him.


	3. Perseverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries and fails to distract himself from his and Cullen's argument, especially Cullen's deeply hurtful parting words. But when he witnesses the end of a heated discussion between Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast, he learns that Cullen may have made some poor decisions regarding his lyrium use.

“You want to talk about it?” Hawke asked, catching Alistair’s sword between her daggers.

“Nope,” Alistair growled, pushing against her for several seconds before giving up and swiping at her left side. Which, of course, she also blocked.

He was growing more annoyed by the second at her agility and strength. The purpose of this sparring session was for him to hit something. Hard.

“You sure?” She disappeared in a puff of smoke, and he spun around in time to block a dagger aimed for his upper back.

The one aimed for his right side hit him with a painful _smack_ of the flat of the blade.

“Damn it!” he spat, recklessly swinging his sword in an arc.

Which she dodged, of course, before retaliating with a successful strike to — shit, his upper back.

“Will you stop that?” he yelled, whirling around in a frustrated rage.

Already out of range, she spread her arms in question, twirling her daggers unnecessarily.

“You spar with me, you get a rogue. You want to hit something hard, talk to The Iron Bull. Or hit a dummy, if you don’t want someone to hit back.” With a couple more showy flourishes, she sheathed her daggers and put her hands on her hips. “Or we could go get a drink, and you could use your words like an adult.”

Alistair scoffed. “Because you’re so mature.”

Hawke flashed him her most infuriating grin. “Just because I choose not to act like an adult doesn’t mean I don’t know how.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Something something, talk things out, blah blah, boring.”

“Exactly,” he snapped. “I came to you because I _didn’t_ want to talk.”

At that, she crossed her arms, brow furrowing in what looked disturbing like concern. “Al —”

“Forget it.” He spun on his heel and headed away from what was apparently a brand new sparring ring and toward the stairs that led up to the battlements.

She materialized right in front of him, stopping him with a hand on his chest.

Fucking rogues.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her tone too gentle to sound anything but pitying.

He rolled his eyes. “What, being on the run from the Wardens for protesting shady, blood magicky tactics isn’t enough reason for you?”

Her glare could have cut through dragon bone. “Cut the shit, Al.” Or druffalo shit, as the case might be. “Yesterday you were practically floating after your spar with Cullen and the morning training sessions. Now you’re pissier than I’ve ever seen you. You have a horrible Wicked Grace face, so spill.” She punctuated the last with a sharp poke to the chest.

Maker’s breath, why did he always surround himself with such maddeningly perceptive women? Though, to be fair, he didn’t choose them; he usually stumbled upon them in his mission to fight darkspawn. So perhaps the better question was, why were such maddeningly perceptive women so drawn to befriending him and meddling in his personal life?

“Did Cullen work through your planned dinner last night? Again?” Hawke’s eyes flashed with a hardness he’d last seen when he told her the Wardens had branded him a traitor.

“No!” he said immediately. Then, after a moment, “Well, not exactly.” He shrugged. “We had an argument, and he was a complete ass.”

“He’s a Knight-Captain. ‘Ass’ is kind of his default state, isn’t it?”

“That’s not his title anymore,” Alistair said, gentle but firm. “And you know it.”

Hawke blew hair off her forehead. “Yeah. But the ass thing is still true.”

Alistair sighed, kicking a rock like a petulant child. “Apparently.”

“Want me to talk to him?” she asked, brandishing her daggers.

Snorting, he shook his head. “Please no. I already have one scary rogue lady prepared to defend my honor. More than that is just embarrassing.”

Hawke cackled rather wickedly. “Oh, yes, Sister Nightingale can have him. But only if I get to watch.”

“He’s going through a lot right now,” Alistair said to his feet, wishing he didn’t feel the need to make excuses for Cullen.

“So are you!” Hawke, bless her, twirled her daggers threateningly. “But I don’t see you being a total ass to your friends!”

The most infuriating thing about all this was that Alistair found himself defending Cullen, first to Leliana, and now to Hawke, when all he wanted to do was be furious.

After storming from Cullen’s office this morning, he’d gone straight to his own quarters and collapsed onto his bed, where might have he cried a little.

Okay, he cried like a baby, but he was under a lot of stress right now — the Wardens turning on him for protesting against tactics he’d sworn never to be a party to after they’d discovered Sophia Dryden and Avernus’s sickening experiments; Clarel branding him a traitor to the Order he’d dedicated most of his life to; being on the run from people he’d considered family; feeling useless and lonely; hearing the Maker-damned Calling. And now, the one friend he’d latched onto like a pathetic, lonely leech had not only turned out to be less invested in their relationship, but had told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t needed or wanted. After he’d been up all night trying to help.

So yes, he’d sobbed into his pillow in frustration and anger and sleep deprivation and a nearly overwhelming sense of sorrow and hopelessness. No, it wasn’t exactly the most masculine thing he could have done, but who would know?

Leliana, that’s who. He’d only just ceased his crying and was on the verge of sleep when she burst into his room.

“What did he do?” she demanded, pacing the room as if she, like him, was too agitated and upset to do anything more productive. “Tell me now. I’ll cut off his —”

“We had an argument, Lels. It happens.”

“This” — she waved a hand that encompassed his current exhausted and red-eyed, tear-streaked state — “implies that you’re massively understating the problem.”

And that’s how he’d found himself defending the man who’d made him feel unwanted, unneeded, and unloved to the terrifyingly calm (and just plain terrifying) Spymaster of the Inquisition.

And unfortunately, without the context, no one saw what Alistair saw — that not only were Cullen’s moods and reactions affected by his withdrawal, but he was quite clearly mortified that someone had seen him at what he considered to be his weakest. Instead, Alistair’s champions only saw Cullen as a bully and Alistair as an innocent and naive victim who was defending the “friend” who’d been so cruel to him.

So he told Hawke, as he’d told Leliana earlier, “It’s complicated, but it’s not my story to tell.”

Leliana had at least understood that, pressing her lips together and questioning him no further. And then she’d sat next to him on the bed and, not unlike he had for her after the fall of the archdemon (but not nearly as necessary as that had been), put an arm around him and whispered comforting words like the wonderful friend she was while he mourned his sad, pathetic lot in life.

At some point he’d fallen into a fitful sleep — there was a reason he was sleep-deprived, and it rhymed with _The Galling_ as well as _Gullen_ — and when he woke, it was mid-afternoon. He’d inhaled some food and gone to find someone who would be willing to let him hit things instead of talking about his feelings. You know, all healthy-like.

He should have known better, though, because not only was Hawke touchingly protective of him nowadays, but she had also (speaking of understatements) never been Cullen’s biggest fan.

“So what,” she said now, her almost creepily bright eyes flaring. “He treats you like shit and you protect his privacy? That doesn’t exactly seem like a fair trade.”

“Maybe,” Alistair admitted. “But I wouldn’t be a good friend if I broke someone’s confidence the second we had an argument.”

Hawke stared at him far longer and more intensely than he was comfortable with. “You’re a good guy,” she said, breaking their gaze. But when she looked up again a second later, her smirk was back. “And a far better person than I am.”

Alistair grinned. “Oh, I know.” He ignored the first comment; he wasn’t a good guy, just a guy stuck in shit situations all his life and trying his best to make the most of them. “I’m better than you in pretty much every way.”

Hawke aimed a punch at his shoulder, which he dodged, and the whole thing might have devolved into a wrestling match if raised voices in the forge hadn’t culminated in the door bursting open.

Cullen nearly barreled right into the Inquisitor, who had been approaching and looked curious and more than a little concerned.

“Forgive me,” Cullen said softly, but loud enough for Alistair, who had Hawke in a headlock, to hear.

Alistair released Hawke in an instant and made it barely a step toward Cullen when their eyes met.

Cullen stopped short, and for a moment opened his mouth as if to speak.

In the next moment, he looked away, shook his head, and turned to climb to the stairs that led to the battlements and his office.

Alistair moved to follow, but a hand on his arm held him back. Whirling around, he saw Hawke glaring holes in the back of Cullen’s skull.

Then her eyes flicked to him and softened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

Alistair turned back to watch, helpless as Cullen hurried away, too many conflicting emotions swirling inside him. The most prominent, however, were hurt, sadness, and intense worry for his friend.

Just as he acknowledged Hawke’s point and slackened, defeated, the door to the forge opened again and the Inquisitor followed Cullen, looking determined.

A tight, uncomfortable sense of dread coalesced in Alistair’s gut, and he bolted for the door to the forge before Hawke had the chance to tighten her grip on his arm again.

He burst through the doorway to find Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast muttering angrily to herself.

Cullen had tasked her with deciding his fitness to command. If he had been talking to her …

“What’s going on?” Alistair demanded.

The Seeker spun around, scowling, tone polite but wary. “Warden.”

He nodded, crossing his arms. “Seeker.”

Before he could say anything else, Hawke finally caught up to him. Alistair didn’t turn around to look, but he knew because the Seeker suddenly looked like she’d sucked on half a dozen lemons and then decided to punish their corpses by crushing them into a pulp.

“Champion.”

Yikes. Alistair had experienced Fereldan winters less frigid.

“Oh, heh heh.” Hawke actually sounded nervous, and Alistair did turn around at that, only to see her with two hands out, backing away. “Sorry, Al, you’re on your own here. Don’t do anything I would do.”

And Hawke — who had (once) defeated Corypheus, the Arishok, and Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard — Hawke, the freaking Champion of Kirkwall — fled the scene.

 

* * *

 

Alistair blinked several times before turning his stunned expression on the Seeker. “You know, I’ve known Hawke a long time, and I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen her cower and flee.”

The Seeker let out a snort of disgust. “I do not think she fears for herself, but for Varric. Her reaction is unwarranted, if understandable.”

Of course. She bailed on Alistair to make sure _Varric_ didn’t get into any more trouble.

Friends putting other people before him? Sounded about right.

“Is there something I can help you with, Warden?”

“Alistair,” he corrected automatically. He hated when people called him by his title; formalities always made him uncomfortable, and if he were honest, he wasn’t feeling particularly charitable to his Order right about now. But everyone at Skyhold except Leliana and Cullen insisted on his title, and it drove him almost as crazy as the Calling itself did.

“As you say,” the Seeker responded. “What can I do for you?”

Good enough. An argument wasn’t worth the trouble right now.

Crossing his arms — and hoping it made him look like a tough, celebrated warrior rather than a teenager throwing a fit — he asked, in a tone as calm and neutral as hers, “What happened with Cullen?”

Her eyes widened a fraction before she scowled more deeply than before. “That isn’t your concern, Warden. If you wish to know Cullen’s business, I suggest you ask him."

Alistair supposed he should be happy that Cullen had trusted his secret to someone so discreet, but right now it annoyed him.

“Oh, I plan to. But since I found him in the midst of a withdrawal episode last night and he insisted I _not_ find you, only to have some sort of disagreement with you today, you can imagine my curiosity.”

For once, the Seeker looked truly incredulous.

“Yes, I know about the lyrium,” he said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t have time for this. “Cullen told me not long after I arrived, including that you’re supposed to keep an eye on him. So I’ll ask again — What. Happened.”

He didn’t know where his sudden assertiveness had come from. This woman was a Seeker of Truth and had clearly known Cullen (or at least this new, ex-Templar version of Cullen) longer than he had. What right did he have to speak to her this way, or to demand confidential information from her?

But Maker’s breath, he was worried for Cullen. No, more than that — he was _terrified_ for Cullen. Because the only reason he would talk to the Seeker after what had happened last night and left with the reactions he’d shown him and the Inquisitor —

“He asked you to replace him, didn’t he.” Barely above a whisper, the words more a statement than a question. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, he knew he was right.

The Seeker studied him in stoic silence for a moment. Whatever she found she must have considered acceptable because she nodded. “Yes. He did.”

“Please tell me you told him no.” Alistair’s voice shook, and he didn’t feel like examining why.

“I told him no.” She stared at him for a few seconds longer. Then, like a bolt shot from Bianca, she began to pace in front of the fire, her movements frenetic and clipped, and more words burst from her than he’d ever heard her say consecutively. “I know he can do this, and have since we met in Kirkwall. It’s not necessary, and worse, it would destroy him. He’s come so far, and he has a chance to break free of the leash that keeps Templars tethered to the Chantry. If he can prove to himself that it’s possible, perhaps others will follow suit. But he was not interested in my judgment today.” She sighed. “People say I’m stubborn, but when he’s made up his mind, he can be an absolute ass!”

Alistair nearly cheered, partly at her opinion but mostly at the way she articulated so well the jumble of thoughts in his own mind.

Uncrossing his arms, he approached her. “I couldn’t agree more. Especially the ‘absolute ass’ part.”

She eyed him again, her gaze roving up and down, taking in all of him; she seemed to stare into his very soul, and he feared she would find him wanting. She was a Seeker, for Maker’s sake, and he was no faithful, honor-bound ex-Templar. Maker’s breath, he was barely Andrastian these days.

“You said you found him last night,” she said eventually. “Tell me what happened.”

And because he needed to talk to someone about all this and she could actually do something to help, he did. He told her everything from the moment he’d found Cullen to his angry exit this morning.

Well, not _everything_. She didn’t need to know the details of Cullen’s nightmares or Alistair’s epic soliloquy on the cheeses of the world, for example, but he told her all the basic facts, including how Cullen had asked him to stay … and then kicked him out in the morning.

Ugh. When he put it that way, he sounded like a jilted lover. Which he was definitely not.

To distract her — and himself — he asked, “Was he right? That nothing can help?”

“Yes. We’ve tried many remedies, but no one has studied lyrium withdrawal.”

“So no one knows what can ease the pain.”

She nodded. “It is fortunate that you found him. He is a stubborn, proud man.” She rolled her eyes, reminding Alistair of Cullen’s descriptions of his sister Mia, and he decided then and there that he liked Cassandra Pentaghast a lot. “But I do not doubt that your presence was comforting.”

“I’d like to think so. But this morning …”

“He was embarrassed and ashamed.” She said it with such conviction that Alistair understood why she’d been chosen as a Seeker and the Right Hand of the Divine. “Irritability and anger are symptoms of lyrium withdrawal.”

He shrugged. “I know.” It still hurt, though, no matter Cullen’s reason. He’d thought that Cullen trusted him, that after everything they’d shared they were beyond being embarrassed around each other.

Apparently he’d been wrong.

“You care for him.” The Seeker stated it as surprising, recently discovered fact.

“We’re friends,” Alistair said, far too quickly and defensively for his own liking.

The Seeker said nothing, but one of her eyebrows quirked upward. A coincidence. Probably. “Cullen has precious few of those.”

Alistair snorted. “Something we have in common.”

“He speaks quite highly of you, you know.”

“He talks about me?” His stupid voice was pitched too high and then cracked, making his stupid face burn and probably turn a stupid shade of stupid red.

And no, his stupid stomach was _not_ fluttering because he and Cullen were _just friends_.

The Seeker only responded with a twitch of her lips so slight Alistair might have imagined it. “Often. He tells me that even as a young man you made your distaste for the Chantry’s insistence on lyrium known. And quite loudly.”

Alistair shrugged. “Well, I’ve always said, if you’re going to defy the human embodiment of Andraste in Thedas, you may as well do it loudly.”

“Yes, he mentioned the blasphemy, as well.” She scowled, but with a humor in her eyes that softened the blow.

Alistair gasped in mock-horror. “To a Seeker of Truth? What a friend he is.”

She actually smiled at that, though it was a sad one. “We have both realized recently that the Chantry must change, and neither of us judge those who understood this before us. In fact, it is a large reason for his admiration of you.”

“Because I didn’t become a Templar?” He hated to break it to her, but there were myriad reasons he refused to take vows, and the lyrium was pretty far down the list.

But Cullen knew that, and still he admired Alistair, whose stomach flipped at the thought.

“Because you did not believe the Chantry.” The Seeker’s brow furrowed. “He feels it was a failure on his part to not see what was happening to him.”

“It’s not,” Alistair said immediately. “He was —”

“I know. But he struggles with it.”

“And takes all the blame and guilt for himself,” Alistair muttered. “How refreshing and different.”

She snorted at that, the closest to genuine enjoyment he’d ever heard from her. That was a win; Alistair always prided himself on his ability to make even the most stoic of companions smile. (Once — and only once — he’d gotten Sten to crack a small one; to this day that remained one of the proudest moments of his life.)

The Seeker frowned lightly — as opposed to the deep frown that seemed to be her permanent expression — and said, “All of Skyhold cannot cease their talk of your sparring session yesterday. Mostly due to Varric’s exaggerations. Can I assume neither of you leapt into the air with a dramatic spin only to land and roll gracefully to your feet for a last-second block?”

Alistair laughed. “Only if you want to take all the fun out of it. I heard we both countered with enough flips you’d think we were rogues who’d flipped straight out of his _Tale of the Champion_. Personally, I prefer that version.”

“But it did end in a draw?”

“Yes.” Alistair didn’t like the way her eyes narrowed at his answer, so he continued, “I was lucky. I could never beat Cullen in training, and he’s only gotten better since.”

“You give yourself too little credit. Leliana sings your praises when she speaks of your time fighting together during the Blight.”

“She’s a bard.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “They do that.”

At that, he found himself on the receiving end of the infamous scowl that terrified even the Inquisition’s Commander. “I have known and worked with Leliana for many years. She does not give idle praise, nor would she exaggerate the skills of anyone when advising the Inquisitor. Her days as a bard are long behind her.”

Though the Seeker likely meant well, her words saddened him — he missed _his_ Leliana, who had literally sung their praises during battle to inspire them. While Leliana’s high opinion was nice, he’d rather hear the Nightingale’s song than the whisper of the secrets she held or her arrows eliminating targets.

Showing more empathy than he expected from her, the Seeker added gently, “You should know, however, that though she tried to hide it, she was clearly worried for your safety.”

To his surprise, that helped. Maybe his old friend Leliana still existed deep down.

“Which of you suggested the draw?” the Seeker asked.

Thrown by the sudden subject change, he answered honestly. “Me.” Then he added with a forced grin, “Didn’t want him to knock me on my ass, so I figured I’d quit while I was ahead.”

Then the Seeker made a disgusted noise he’d only heard from her on the topic of Varric. He was vaguely offended until she said, “Leliana was right. You are a horrendous liar.”

Then he was quite distinctly offended.

She was right, of course, but he didn’t have to stand and take it. His day had been horrible as it was.

“You know, I didn’t come in here and talk about your anger issues, did I?” he snapped. “I’ve had a pretty terrible day. I don’t need this.”

 As he turned, she countered, “We have been honest with each other so far. Why do you withhold information now?”

“Not everything is your business, Seeker,” he called over his shoulder. “Especially if it’s not relevant.”

“I have been tasked with ensuring his health,” she said. “Should I not be the one to do decide relevance?”

He stopped at that. What if Cullen’s stumbles during their sparring session were part of a larger pattern, and by keeping information to himself he kept her from noticing a long-term issue?

But he’d already broken Cullen’s trust by giving her the details of last night’s episode, even if she could likely have guessed. Others would disagree, but he didn’t want to betray Cullen any more than he already had.

“I could guess, if you would prefer,” the Seeker said, though he thought he heard a wryness in her tone. “You could blink once for yes, twice for no. Then you would not technically be betraying his trust.”

He rolled his eyes as he turned to face her. “You’ve been hanging around Leliana too long. She loves exploiting technicalities.”

Ignoring his comment, she said, “I assume he showed a symptom that concerned you. Subtle enough that you could get away with taking the blame for ending the match early, so clearly not weakness or excessive shaking. Fatigue, perhaps?”

Alistair spoke to his shoes as he told the Seeker what he hadn’t even mentioned to Cullen. “He stumbled on maneuvers that are second nature to him. After the third time, I suggested the draw.”

“Did you say something to him about it afterward?”

Alistair shook his head. “I asked him if he was okay, and when he said yes, I let it go.”

“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head to him.

Several pieces fell into place, and Alistair nearly bent over at a sudden wave of nausea. “It was our sparring session that triggered his episode, wasn’t it?”

“I believe so. But you are not to blame.”

He nodded, avoiding the Seeker’s gaze. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally … I do not know.”

Maker, Alistair wanted to go to Cullen right now and tell him how brave and courageous he was so badly that he had to physically plant his feet harder into the floor. Because Cullen had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t need Alistair’s help.

“Thank you,” he said with a single nod to the Seeker.

Once again, he headed for the door.

And once again, she stopped him. “Even if he does not appreciate what you have done, know that I see the depth of your friendship for him. Not many would have honored his request for privacy, or stayed with him during his suffering. Even fewer would still be concerned after the way he treated you.”

Without turning from the door, Alistair snorted in the beginnings of that bitter laugh he hated about himself. “That’s because most people are smart enough to take a hint.”

She was quiet for several moments, and yes, he was curious, so he turned around to see what, if anything, she might be thinking.

Her head was tilted, her lips pursed, regarding him yet again in that way that made him feel like she was staring into his soul. “Caring for someone in spite of their actions does not imply stupidity, nor does trust signify weakness.”

Ugh. Either she’d been talking to Leliana or they’d both been drinking the same Chantry brainwash for too long.

Oh, who was he kidding? Probably both.

“In fact,” she continued, “it takes a particular strength to know the worst the world and its people are capable of and still believe in the best. Were I to pinpoint your belief system, Warden, I should describe it thusly.”

“Alistair,” he corrected automatically, and though he wanted to say something clever and perhaps cutting, he found himself touched by her words.

“The Inquisitor is not like unlike you … Alistair.” He looked at her sharply, and she smiled kindly at him. “She also prefers to believe the best of people. Which is why, once I told her of Cullen’s intentions, she rushed after him to convince him that he is, in fact, strong enough to maintain his position as Commander.”

“Do you think she’ll succeed?”

“She can be quite inspiring when she wants to be.”

Alistair had to give her that much; he’d experienced the Inquisitor’s inspirational talks first hand. “But Cullen can be an infuriatingly stubborn ass.”

The Seeker actually chuckled at that. “Yes. But deep down, I know he does not want to resign. He merely needs someone with enough authority to assure him he is worthy of trust.”

Alistair considered that a vast understatement, but if the Inquisitor couldn’t do it, no one could.

“Thank you, Seeker Pentaghast,” he said with a small bow.

“Please,” she said. “Call me Cassandra.”

That made him smile. Then he nodded to her and left the forge.

 

* * *

 

Alistair wanted to go straight up to Cullen’s tower to check on him, but not only would it be rude to barge in if Cullen was still speaking with the Inquisitor, he also worried it would just be pathetic. Cullen had practically kicked him out this morning — ugh, he really needed to reword that, even in his head it sounded like they’d slept together — and had blatantly avoided his gaze when he stormed from the forge.

No matter how badly he wanted to see Cullen, Cullen clearly didn’t want to see him.

That hurt, and far more than it should have, but he brushed it aside, instead focusing on something truly important.

It was now early evening, and he hadn’t eaten in several hours. So first thing was first — food.

He swung by the kitchens, chatted with the staff, and worked his charms on the terrifying woman who ran the place. Known only as Cook, she did not approve of people wandering in and out of her kitchen, snatching food whenever they pleased. But Alistair _loved_ food. He was always hungry (thanks to his demanding Warden appetite) and would eat pretty much anything he could get his hands on (thanks to basically surviving a good portion of his life on kitchen scraps). And so Cook loved _him_.

Tonight, she sent him away with a basket full of cheeses — Maker, he loved that woman, since she always let him try new ones and, he suspected, purchased some specifically for him to try — as well as somewhat healthier snacks, like apples and her delicious rolls with butter, and even some of his favorite pastries (filled with cheese, of course).

As he munched, he headed toward his rooms, humming along with the Calling. He knew that wasn’t a good idea — humming was the first step toward really listening, which was the beginning of the end for a Warden. But it was always in his head, and occasionally it struck him as quite beautiful. Shouldn’t he at least get some enjoyment out of an otherwise shitty situation?

So distracted by the Calling was he that he suddenly found himself on the battlements leading to Cullen’s tower. Annoyed, he couldn’t actually blame his subconscious for bringing him there. He and Cullen had dined often of an evening, so his arrival was due to muscle memory more than anything else. But that didn’t make his heart ache any less.

He was about to turn around when he saw the Inquisitor, leaning against the ramparts and taking in the lovely view of the Frostbacks. She looked pensive and serious and kind of sad. If he had to describe her in a word, he’d call her … well, Inquisitorial.

Hold on, _sad_? Just outside Cullen’s office, after chasing him from the forge with the intent of talking him out of his request to be replaced as Commander?

In his anxiety, Alistair didn’t run, exactly, but he did close the distance between them rather more rapidly than he normally moved.

“Good evening, Alistair.” She didn’t look at him, and everything about her was so placid he might have thought he was worrying unnecessarily, if it wasn’t for the general aura of melancholy that surrounded her.

“Is he okay?” Alistair blurted, niceties be damned.

Her mouth curved upward at that, and she nodded. “He will be. He needs rest, some decent meals, and time. I suggest you visit him, but not yet. He asked to be alone for a while.”

“Is he —”

“He is still my Commander,” the Inquisitor said softly. “I told him I won’t accept any decisions until he’s in a calm, collected state of mind.”

“And if he tries to resign once he’s feeling better?”

“He won’t.” The Inquisitor smiled then, looking at him from the corner of her eye, and it was a smile not unlike that of a certain scary old friend of his. He wondered how much of an effect Leliana had on Inquisitor Trevelyan, and at the thought, a shiver ran down his spine.

He dropped his basket of cheesy goodness — which did not spill, thank the Maker — and clenched his fists at his sides. “How are you so sure?” he demanded. “If you’re manipulating him —”

“You trained as a Templar, didn’t you?”

“I did …” He let the sentence trail off, indicating in no uncertain terms that his wariness of the sudden shift. As with Leliana, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Trevelyan did everything with a purpose. “Cullen and I trained together in Ferelden.”

“Yes, I remember you discussing that at our first war table meeting.”

So did Alistair. He’d been surprised by Cullen’s presence, as well as by how much Cullen had changed, both physically and in the way he expressed himself — calm, cool, confident, definitely not a Templar, and yes, considerably hotter than Alistair remembered. Especially in that armor.

As often happened with his older, happier memories, this one was tainted — in this case, by their argument this morning and Cullen’s unkind words. Alistair tried to push the memory away before too long dwelling caused the change to become permanent, but Trevelyan rendered that unnecessary by interrupting his thoughts.

“But you didn’t take vows.”

“Fuck no.” At Trevelyan’s snort, he imagined Cullen’s mortification and rushed to correct himself. “I’m sorry. Until a few weeks ago, I was literally living in a cave, so please pardon my abominable manners and language, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes and finally turned to face him, smirking. “Please. There’s no need to stand on ceremony. We’re alone, for fuck’s sake.”

Alistair grinned, and she returned it.

“If I’m honest, it’s nice to be able to let loose a little. Even among my Inner Circle, I have to watch my language. Only about half of them swear or don’t mind it, while the other half make me feel as guilty as a Revered Mother.”

“Let me guess,” said Alistair, counting them off on his fingers. “The Iron Lady, Chuckles, the Seeker, and your entire War Council.”

“Not bad.” She smiled. “So please don’t feel like you have to hold back, especially with something as clearly upsetting to you as becoming a Templar.” Her expression melted into a frown. “Why didn’t you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Alistair sighed. “It’s a really long story.” And one he hated telling, as miserable as it was. “Suffice to say I didn’t choose to be sent to the Chantry, and although I appreciated the discipline and weapons training, the last thing I wanted to do was be a Templar. Thankfully, the Wardens came calling — no pun intended —” That earned him a smile. “— and recruited me before I had to take vows.”

That was a massive oversimplification, of course. Duncan had specifically asked to see him fight in the tournament the Templars hosted and eventually chose him as his recruit in spite of the fact that he placed _seventh_ ; then Duncan had had to invoke the Right of Conscription because the Grand Cleric wouldn’t let Alistair leave even though she declared him unfit to serve the Maker at least once a week. Alistair still didn’t understand that, nor why Duncan had requested he be allowed to fight, but the other Wardens told him that Duncan had a knack for picking a recruit out in a crowd, and after meeting _her_ , he’d had to agree. So eventually he decided it was luck or fate or some other power beyond his control, and he would never cease to be grateful for it.

“I’ve been told that you were quite vocal even as a recruit about the Templars’ use of lyrium,” Trevelyan said.

Now he understood why she’d changed the subject — it was her way of easing him into this discussion. Just like Leliana.

“I assume your Spymaster and Commander informed you?”

“And Cassandra. Forgive me if I wanted to know a bit more about the background of this rebellious Warden before I went to talk with you.”

That … actually made sense. “Did they also tell you about my unholy love of fine cheeses and my undeniable prowess in bed?”

He channeled Zev for that last part and, as it always had for Zev, it worked.

“No comment,” Trevelyan said, laughing. “Though they, as well as Hawke and Varric, assured me you are a good, honorable man who has devoted the past decade of his life to the Wardens, and the idea of you betraying the Wardens was laughable. That the Wardens branded you a traitor was a sign that they, and not you, were on a bad path. After meeting you, I had to agree.”

Alistair swallowed painfully, the beautiful view of the Frostbacks blurring before him. Was that truly how people saw him? People like Cullen and the Inquisitor and the Champion of Kirkwall and the person closest to the Hero of Ferelden?

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “That is high praise indeed. From all of you.”

“It is,” Trevelyan said, and Alistair couldn’t decide if she was arrogant for praising her own opinion or humble for acknowledging the weight of others’. “Believe me when I say that I respect your opinions. Knowing that, would you be willing to discuss why you distrusted the Chantry’s use of lyrium at such a young age? Many who are older and more experienced than you were not nearly as cynical. Or perhaps ‘wise’ would be the better word.”

It was a question he’d wondered himself over the years, and he gave her his best conclusion. “I suppose I never believed in all the ‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just’ bullshit. Anything built on that seemed equally bullshit.”

Then, in conceding to an urge that surprised him, he spoke aloud something he’d never shared with anyone before.

“I’ve never taken lyrium, but I have tasted it. In the last year of training, they tell you about it in graphic detail. What powers it gives, what happens when it’s taken away. And then they give everyone a taste. Just a sip. Not enough to get hooked, but enough to feel what it can do. I remember it tasted disgusting, but it made me feel … strong. Confident. For a few minutes, the powers we’d been exercising for years increased tenfold, maybe more. As hard as I’d always tried, I could never figure out how to smite, but with the lyrium, with just a sip, I could finally do it.”

He hated that memory because that was the day when those who’d been unsure decided to take their vows, and those who’d always been faithful and believed in their own higher purpose, like Cullen, grew stronger in their faith.

“It wore off after a few minutes, and I was the only one who never wanted to touch the stuff again. Everyone else _knew_ after that that they were destined to serve the Maker, and that taking vows and lyrium was the way to do it. The Maker had provided the Chantry with something that would give their knights power over magic. And I was the only one who saw through the lies — the Chantry just wanted control, and they used lyrium to do it.”

He grinned, cynical and not a little bitter.

“That was when they really started to hate me. Before, I was an annoying reputed-bastard who caused all sorts of mischief. After, I was a dangerous blasphemer who told anyone I could about how lyrium was a conspiracy to control Templars, and therefore mages, in ways Andraste had never intended.”

Trevelyan said nothing for a while, and for the first time Alistair noticed the cold brought on by the growing dusk. Yes, the sun set earlier this time of year, but he’d passed more time than intended speaking with the Inquisitor.

“I’m glad you managed to escape.” Then, after a moment, she added, “That fate, anyway.”

Any other time, and Alistair would have laughed — the Taint was no picnic, either. But once again he voiced a thought that he’d never spoken aloud before. “I wish I’d managed to save more than just myself,” he whispered, looking past the Inquisitor toward Cullen’s tower.

“He wouldn’t have listened,” she said.

And Alistair knew she was right. But still. That didn’t make him feel any better.

A few silent minutes passed. Alistair prepared to say his goodbyes when she asked, “Do you think he chose the right thing? Lyrium withdrawal could kill him. He would be healthier if he continued to take it. Safer,” she added softly.

The bottom of Alistair’s stomach plummeted from the battlements all the way to the foot of the mountains. He gripped her arm and breathed, “You didn’t. You _wouldn’t_.”

He gave her no chance to respond before he broke into a run for the door to Cullen’s tower.

“Alistair, wait!”

But he ignored her and burst unannounced into Cullen’s dark, quiet office.


	4. Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair demands to speak with Cullen about his lyrium use, but Cullen has other ideas. They both wonder what, if any, of their friendship can be salvaged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are still reading, THANK YOU! I know I promised this chapter something like three months ago, but life happened and I had more difficulty than I thought I would making this chapter flow the way I wanted. But here it is, the end, finally finished! (And I deeply apologize for that three-month cliffhanger!) Hopefully the length (almost 15K words) will make up for its tardiness.
> 
> Previously, in _Just Friends_ :  
> Alistair prepared to say his goodbyes when Trevelyan asked, “Do you think he chose the right thing? Lyrium withdrawal could kill him. He would be healthier if he continued to take it. Safer,” she added softly.
> 
> The bottom of Alistair’s stomach plummeted from the battlements all the way to the foot of the mountains. He gripped her arm and breathed, “You didn’t. _You wouldn’t_.”
> 
> He gave her no chance to respond before he broke into a run for the door to Cullen’s tower.
> 
> “Alistair, wait!”
> 
> But he ignored her and burst unannounced into Cullen’s dark, quiet office.

Alistair slammed the door to Cullen’s office open so hard it bounced of the wall and clicked closed again.

“Don’t do it, Cullen!” he shouted.

Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the single, sputtering candle on the desk, over which hunched a large, dark figure.

The figure looked up with a start, and for a moment, Alistair’s heart stuttered to a stop. Because what he saw at Cullen’s desk looked familiar in the worst way.

A tired, gaunt face. Greyish, clammy skin. Dark circles under sunken eyes. Hair lacking its former luster.

Most people called it Blight sickness. The Wardens called it the Taint. But they had a different name for one of their own who had been Called and hadn’t gone to the Deep Roads before the Taint drove them to serve the darkspawn.

Ghouls. An apropos name, Alistair had always thought.

The ghoul squinted. “Alistair?” it said in Cullen’s voice.

And Alistair’s heart resumed its beat, if somewhat faster than before. The voice was weak, but it was _Cullen_. Cullen who was ill from lyrium withdrawal, that was all. He wasn’t Tainted, and he would not become a ghoul.

“Alistair!” Trevelyan called, slamming the door open as hard as Alistair had.

Damn it, he’d wasted his time with irrational fears — which sort of summed up his life as a Warden, if he was honest.

He hurried across the room to the desk, where Cullen was wincing, fingers at his temple, at the sound of door and the shouts and the small amount of dusk light coming through behind Trevelyan.

It pained him to see Cullen hurting, but he didn’t have time for that.

“Don’t do it, Cullen,” he begged softly, wanting to reach out but forcing his hands to stay flat on the desk for the sake of Cullen’s sanity and potential pain. “ _Please_ don’t start taking lyrium again. No matter who tells you to do it.”

“What?” Cullen’s impatient, mildly annoyed tone was comfortingly familiar, and his face scrunched up in mild discomfort and a confused expression so very him that Alistair breathed an audible sigh of relief.

This was definitely Cullen. _His_ Cullen.

“I didn’t tell him to start taking lyrium again!” Trevelyan’s exasperation exploded in the muted quiet of Cullen’s office.

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands, a small moan of pain escaping from him.

Trevelyan lowered her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, and she sounded it. Then she turned once again to Alistair and practically whispered, “I didn’t order him to start taking lyrium again. I told him it was his choice. I was only asking _you_ , as his friend and someone who despises lyrium, whether or not you thought he was doing the right thing.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped, and no words came out. Both the Inquisitor and Cullen (now at least somewhat recovered from his discomfort) were staring at him in varying degrees of disbelief.

He looked away, and as he did he saw a mess of broken wood and shattered glass by one of the other doors. A streak of blue powder glowed slightly in the dim candlelight. If not for that, he might not have recognized the remains of a lyrium kit.

_Cullen’s_ lyrium kit. In pieces on the floor.

Whatever had happened, Cullen had clearly not taken lyrium.

Which made Alistair feel rather stupid now.

“Oh,” he said stupidly.

“It would seem I have my answer,” Trevelyan said, mouth curving into a slight smile that made his face burn even more than it already was. “Oh, and you left this behind.”

And, to add insult to injury, she handed him his basket of cheese, apples, rolls, and cheese-filled pastries.

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered, taking it from her.

“Alistair,” Cullen said softly.

“Right.” Alistair spoke over him. “Well, thank you, Inquisitor, for that delightful conversation, and uh …” Damn it, looking at Cullen brought back all the worry from last night plus all the hurt from this morning. “I’m starving, as usual, so I’m going to eat some dinner.” Holding up his basket as evidence, he spun on his heel and headed for the door he’d entered through. “Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Cullen’s voice, though quiet, cracked like a whip, an order from a superior officer, and Alistair followed it on instinct.

Wonderful. Because that was exactly how Alistair wanted to be treated by a friend.

“I’d like to speak with you before — that is, if you —” Cullen cleared his throat, and Alistair turned around in time to see him rubbing the back of his neck. “Inquisitor, could you excuse us?”

“Of course,” Trevelyan said, retreating to the door that led to the main hall. “Alistair, make sure he gets some rest.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Alistair said numbly as she closed the door, leaving him and Cullen alone for the first time since this morning.

 

* * *

 

Alistair couldn’t look Cullen in the eyes, so he scanned the office instead. It was dark save for the lone, sputtering, rather pathetic candle on the desk, which was covered in parchment as usual. Including bits of crumpled parchment, which was not at all usual.

Had the self-sacrificing idiot actually been working, as if a withdrawal episode last night followed by two intense discussions refusing his resignation weren’t enough for one day?

“You should be resting,” Alistair said gently. Only then — _such wonderful observation skills you have, Warden_ — did he notice that Cullen wore a simple tunic and trousers and not his full plate armor.

Thank the Maker for that. It wasn’t resting, but it was something.

Cullen still sat behind his desk, rubbing his neck and avoiding Alistair’s gaze as intently as Alistair had avoided his. “I was resting.”

Alistair looked pointedly at the uncharacteristically messy desk before returning his gaze to Cullen.

“It’s not — this isn’t work.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow.

With an annoyed scoff, Cullen picked up a piece of parchment and thrust it toward Alistair.

It read, in Cullen’s neat, precise handwriting, very unlike Cullen’s neat and precise thinking.

 

> _~~Alistair~~ _
> 
> _~~Dear Warden~~ _
> 
> _Dear Alistair,_
> 
> _~~I should like to~~ _
> 
> _~~If you would agree~~ _
> 
> _~~Please join me for~~ _
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Alistair,_
> 
> _~~Although you have no reason to wish it so, I~~ _
> 
> _I’m sor_

 

Alistair looked up from the parchment and once again let his gaze roam — several wadded up balls of parchment littered the top of Cullen’s desk.

He pressed his lips together and tried very hard not to smirk. He was mostly successful. “How many drafts did you go through?”

Cullen snatched the set of uncharacteristic scribbles from Alistair and looked hastily away, gathering up the crumpled bits as well. “Not enough, apparently.”

As he shifted to put the papers aside, he closed his eyes let his head droop into his empty hand.

Alistair was at his side in an instant, removing the papers from Cullen’s grasp. “Let me do that.”

Surprisingly, Cullen did, without protest.

Alistair dropped the papers on the floor next to the desk, and Cullen must truly not have been feeling well because he didn’t even seem annoyed by that.

“We can talk later,” Alistair said, as Cullen looked blearily up at him.

But, in spite of what Alistair imagined to be a good amount of pain, Cullen shook his head, avoiding Alistair’s gaze. “No. The note was to ask if you would speak with me, and now you’re here. I need to — We need to talk.”

Head still propped up by one hand — which massaged his temple — as he leaned his elbow against his desk, Cullen waved his other hand at the only other chair in the office, which Alistair had recently begun to think of as his own.

The chair was positioned on Cullen’s side of the desk, and Alistair sat as requested, turning the chair to face Cullen.

Cullen didn’t continue, and Alistair wasn’t sure if that was because he was exhausted or just figuring out what to say.

“Well,” Alistair said, heart in his throat. “I’m here now.”

Cullen nodded at his desk, and, after a moment, raised his head to look Alistair in the eye.

“I want to apologize for my abominable behavior this morning. I — I was —” He closed his eyes. “I was ungrateful, unfair, and … cruel,” he finished in a whisper. Then he swallowed and looked at Alistair once again, those amber eyes watery, conjuring the memory of the many times he’d cried the previous night. “I am truly sorry, Alistair. You were kind and understanding and didn’t leave me alone, only to be repaid like …” Cullen shook and then bowed his head. “Like that.”

Alistair sat back in his chair and let the words sink in. As they did, a weight lifted from his chest.

Cullen didn’t hate him. Cullen didn’t take him for granted. And Cullen did not think the things he’d told himself as he’d sobbed in his quarters this morning — _You’re useless. You don’t deserve love or friendship. No one cares about you or wants you around. You’re not worth anyone’s time or effort, and you’re stupid for thinking you were._

Cullen cared enough to attempt several drafts of a simple message in order to apologize for the way he’d treated him.

“Thank you,” Alistair said softly. “I appreciate that.”

Cullen nodded, but said nothing.

After a moment, Alistair said, “I’m sorry, too. For the things I said. I was angry and hurt and —”

Cullen shook his head. “I deserved them.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“I suppose not,” Cullen said softly. Then he sat up straight. “Of course, I won’t ask that you continue to train my troops.”

Alistair felt that like a shield bash to the chest. “Oh. Of course.”

He should have known better than to hope for anything more.

Cullen continued to avoid his gaze, and Alistair was glad of it now. He couldn’t stop his vision from blurring or keep his breaths steady and even, and if he could leave before Cullen noticed he was moments from falling apart …

A knock on one of the doors made them both jump.

“Enter,” Cullen said, and Maker, did he sound tired.

A young elven woman pushed open the door carrying a large tray of food. Alistair rushed to assist her, taking the frankly ridiculously overloaded tray before she dropped it or fell over.

“Oh, Warden, that isn’t necessary, I —”

“Please.” Alistair smiled at her and placed the tray on Cullen’s desk. “You did the hard work, carrying it up all those stairs. The least I can do is carry it the last few feet across the room.”

He winked at her, and she smiled before looking away, which was his intention. He couldn’t imagine the kitchen staff were falling over themselves to bring the moody, broody Commander the food he wouldn’t eat.

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t —”

“No, ser,” the woman said with a curtsy that Cullen opened his mouth to protest before she continued. “The Inquisitor came down to the kitchens herself and asked Cook to make up a tray for you and the Warden to dine. Cook sent a few more cheeses,” she added to Alistair, “but Her Worship insisted you only be allowed to eat them if you ensure the Commander eats as well.”

Alistair shifted uncomfortably and in his periphery saw Cullen do the same. As Cullen cleared his throat to speak, Alistair beat him to whatever refusal he would likely attempt.

“Of course,” he said with a grin. “We have our orders. Thank you, and you can tell both Cook and the Inquisitor that I will earn my cheese.”

He gave her an exaggerated bow, and she giggled, curtsying to them both with a “Sers” before leaving, the door clicking shut behind her.

When he turned back to the desk, Cullen quickly averted his gaze, but not before Alistair caught just a hint of a smile before it disappeared.

A sour, greenish feeling turned Alistair’s stomach. “You don’t fancy her, do you?”

“What? No!” Cullen’s entire face turned a rather dark shade of red as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t — of course not! I don’t even know — not to mention … inappropriate …”

“Sorry,” Alistair mumbled. _Why_ had he asked that? What did he care if Cullen had a stupid crush on the young woman who brought him his meals? This was all awkward enough without him opening his stupid mouth.

Cullen was now regarding the covered, heavily laden tray before him with a dubious, slightly sick expression.

“Whatever it is, it smells good,” Alistair said, and before Cullen could object, he lifted the various lids to reveal the contents.

Next to a plate of cheese (presumably for Alistair) on one side and a plate of bread on the other sat two steaming bowls of different colored broths.

Cullen leaned into the steam and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. A soft hum escaped him.

That hum did things to Alistair’s insides. Things he’d try to figure out later. Or never.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, snatching up a handful of the cheeses and shoving them into his own already-full basket. “You don’t need a nursemaid.”

They both winced at that. Idiot. He hadn’t intended it to be a jab at Cullen’s remark from this morning, but their respective pain and guilt were still fresh.

“Sorry,” he murmured again. “I’ll, uh … see you later.”

“Of course,” he barely heard Cullen say.

Heart aching in his chest, Alistair opened the door and left.

 

* * *

 

Halfway along the battlement to the next tower, Alistair stopped.

After several seconds, he spun on his heel and stalked back to Cullen’s door.

 

* * *

 

For the second time in an hour, he burst into Cullen’s office unannounced.

Cullen sat hunched over his desk, tray pushed away, head in his hands. The very picture of defeat.

He started at Alistair’s dramatic entrance, though, and even winced. Alistair almost felt bad.

Almost.

“Is this how it’s going to be now?” Alistair demanded, voice shaking with emotions he found it difficult to identify. “Awkward and weird, like the past few weeks never happened? I’m asking because I don’t exactly have an abundance of friends, and I’d like to take notes for the highly unlikely scenario of me living long enough to make another one.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “Alistair —”

“I’d like to know what I did wrong that you can’t ask me to train your troops,” Alistair continued, too riled to stop. “I told you I was sorry for what I said this morning, but apparently that isn’t good enough for you!”

“Please —”

“And you’re the one who wanted to write a note to me! But all you planned to do was apologize and then send me away like you did this morning!”

“ _Alistair_ —”

“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been all day? Knowing you were going to hurt yourself even more than you already had in your stupid, stubborn pr —”

Something small and quite hard hit Alistair in the nose, and he stopped in sheer surprise.

“Stop talking,” Cullen said, quiet but stern. “Or the next one goes out the window.”

He held up something around the size of a coin. Then Alistair looked down at the thing that had hit him in the face.

A piece of cheese.

He bent to scoop it up. “How could you waste perfectly good cheese?”

“In my defense,” Cullen said. “I was aiming for your mouth. But even I have difficulty hitting a constantly moving target.”

That dry tone Alistair had been hearing so much more lately was audible even in the quiet of the office, and relief washed away the rage that fueled his rant just moments before.

“Jokes at a time like this?” Raising an eyebrow, he crossed the room to Cullen’s desk once again.

Cullen lifted a shoulder in the weakest of shrugs. “I learned it from a friend.”

For some reason, that made Alistair’s eyes sting with tears. Perhaps it was the reference to what Cullen had tearfully told him last night, that his jokes had helped when they were younger. Or maybe it was, after everything, Cullen’s simple use of the word _friend_.

Alistair summoned a shaky smile and said, “Your friend sounds like a real pain in the ass.”

“Only when I need him to be.” Cullen’s lips curved ever-so-slightly upward, and Alistair had to hold back what would seem to any outsider to be an extremely inappropriately timed grin.

As Cullen waved a bare hand once again toward the empty chair, Alistair found himself drawn, not to the movement, but to the appendage itself. It took him a moment to understand why — just as he hadn’t, until last night, witnessed Cullen without his armor, so had he never before had the chance to truly observe Cullen’s hands ungloved. Oh, they’d been bare last night, for sure, but Alistair had been somewhat distracted by the larger issue and Cullen hadn’t exactly been using them as he normally did. Now that he had the chance, Alistair observed that they were perfectly proportioned, with large palms and long, thick fingers — unlike his own, which were rather spindly by comparison. Alistair could tell that, under normal circumstances, they were strong, somewhat calloused (which he had only barely noticed last night), and scarred.

Not unlike their owner, he supposed. In either case, he couldn’t pull his gaze away.

“Do you think we could sit and speak calmly and quietly?” Cullen asked. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m feeling a bit under the weather, and the shouting does little for my headache.”

Now Alistair felt bad. “Only if you put down the innocent cheese.” He lowered himself into the chair. “It did nothing wrong.”

Cullen snorted. “Forgive me. I knew of no other way to shut you up.” He held out the piece of cheese he threatened with defenestration. “I promise to make no more attempts on the lives of innocents if you promise not to walk out that door for a third time today. I’m afraid I could not follow you, no matter how much I might wish to.”

A jolt of guilt shot through Alistair. He hadn’t considered that Cullen might have wanted to stop him. “I won’t. You have my word.”

“I did, you know,” Cullen said softly. “Try to follow you this morning. But you were right, of course — I could barely keep myself vertical, much less chase after you, and I was in no condition to yell, either.”

“I’m sorry.” Alistair’s voice was barely above a whisper, and it had nothing to do with Cullen’s request for quiet.

Cullen shook his head and stared at the tray of food on his desk. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I said those horrible things to make you leave, and once you did, I wished I hadn’t.” He leaned back in his chair, weary, but looked at Alistair earnestly. “Might I explain?”

Alistair’s cheeks burned, but he nodded.

“I wish to clear the air, and to answer your concerns,” said Cullen in all seriousness, as if he were discussing strategy in the war room.

Alistair opened his mouth to say something sarcastic — maybe, _“Only if you break it down into its component parts and subparts”_ — but realized that Cullen was trying his best to set things right between them, for _him_ , and if this was the way Cullen in his exhaustion could formulate his thoughts, the least Alistair could do was listen respectfully.

So he merely nodded his encouragement for Cullen to continue.

“The message I struggled to write —” Cullen waved vaguely at his desk, though the parchment was now in a pile on the floor. “— was intended to invite you here for dinner so that I might apologize for my behavior. This morning, last night, the past few days, all of it.”

“You don’t have to —”

Cullen held up a hand, nearly sighing his words. “Please. I cannot speak over you, and I … I should like you to hear what I have to say.”

Alistair bowed his head, scolding himself for not shutting up for once in his damned life.

“When I said I would not ask you to resume training, I only meant that I could not in good conscience ask you to.” Cullen sighed. “After everything that had passed between us, I did not want you to feel obligated or coerced into something you might not wish to do.”

Alistair’s mouth opened in a silent _Oh_. He should have known better than to think Cullen would intend otherwise.

“I would never want to force proximity or friendship upon you were you unready or unwilling,” Cullen continued. “So after apologizing, I followed your lead. When you said nothing, so did I. When you left, I did not protest.” Cullen frowned, shifting his gaze away from Alistair and to a random spot on his desk. “No matter how much I wished to.”

Maker, Alistair felt like an ass. Why had he assumed the worst? Or, more importantly, why would he expect the worst?

He knew the answer, even as he hated himself for it — if he always assumed the worst, he would never be disappointed by hoping for more.

Cullen inhaled a shaky breath, and when his eyes met Alistair’s, they were shining too brightly. “I would like nothing more than to pretend this was a minor disagreement and move forward as if nothing of import occurred between us. As you mentioned, I, too, do not have so many friends I can afford to lose one. But I fear it’s too much to ask, even of one as forgiving as you.”

Alistair said nothing, though he thought many, many things.

Cullen frowned. “I don’t know how to interpret silence from you. Please say something.”

“Are you finished? I didn’t want to interrupt again.”

Cullen looked at him sharply, seeming to search for signs of mocking or sarcasm, but found none because it wasn’t there. Alistair was genuinely asking.

“Ah. Um, yes,” Cullen said. “Thank you for letting me —”

“Good,” said Alistair. “You’re wrong.”

Cullen shook his head in confusion, brow furrowed, but Alistair barely paused to register it.

“I want things back to normal, too.” As he said the words out loud, a relief washed over him. “So let’s call it water under the bridge and move on.”

“What?” Cullen blinked. “Just … like that?”

Alistair smiled. “Just like that.”

Cullen opened his mouth as if to speak and then froze, as if his brain had jammed. Not unlike the improperly calibrated gears of a trebuchet.

“It’s not that complicated,” said Alistair. “You went through an ordeal last night, and you were a complete ass this morning, even if I understood why. You regret it and apologized. I accept your apology. Let’s move on.”

“But I —”

“Nope!” Alistair held up a hand. “You said you wanted to pretend this was a minor disagreement. As far as I’m concerned, it was. Now, I’m starving, and I’d like to earn my cheese, so could you at least try and sip some of that broth? Maybe a mouthful for every piece of cheese I eat?”

Still looking rather unsettled, Cullen nodded almost absently and picked up a spoon. He’d swallowed several spoonfuls of broth before Alistair spoke again.

“What concerns me more,” he said gently, “is why you attempted to resign today.”

Cullen bowed his head. “I should think that would be obvious.”

“If it was, I wouldn’t be asking.” Alistair made a big show of eating three pieces of cheese in a row, and when Cullen didn’t say anything, he continued. “Unless by ‘obvious’ you mean that you’re attempting to be an honorable idiotic martyr again.”

He blinked innocently at Cullen’s glare, popping another piece of cheese into his mouth.

“You were present last night.” Cullen spoke to his broth. “And this morning. If that’s not an obvious reason —”

“It’s not. And drink your broth. I’m at least three bites ahead of you.” Alistair waited until Cullen sipped another mouthful, and then said quietly, “All I saw last night and this morning was my sick friend who pushed himself too hard and didn’t rest when he needed should have. While definitely stupid —” Cullen glared out of the corner of his eye, but continued to sip his broth. “— I wouldn’t call it disqualifying for the job.”

Cullen let his spoon clatter into the bowl and turned to face Alistair. His expression was … well, Alistair might have considered it angry if there wasn’t such an underlying sadness to it.

“Last night was —”

“Unusual,” said Alistair. “Right? When was the last time you had an episode of that magnitude?”

“They’re exacerbated by stress, of which, as you so kindly noted when I first told you about my decision to stop taking lyrium, this job does not suffer a lack.”

“Which clearly means you have to dramatically quit,” Alistair said, rolling his eyes. “As opposed to, oh, I don’t know, attempting to regulate your workload. Getting more sleep. Not overtaxing your body when it’s tired. _Eating meals at mealtime_.”

Cullen slapped his open palm on his desk. “I am attempting to prioritize my own health — and by extension, the stability and well-being of the Inquisition. Is that not what everyone, including you, has been telling me to do?”

“Why do you assume they’re mutually exclusive?”

Cullen rubbed his forehead roughly. “I have been essentially useless for a day and a half, and will likely be so for at least that much longer. How is that helpful to the Inquisition?”

“It’s not,” Alistair admitted. “But if you took better care of yourself —”

“You don’t understand!” Cullen snapped. “The Commander of the Inquisition must be available at all times! What if Corypheus attacks Skyhold? He surely will not wait for my health to improve!”

Alistair sighed. Cullen seemed determined to resign, even after his talk with Trevelyan — which Alistair had yet to discover the results of other than that she’d not insisted Cullen take lyrium again.

“What did Trev have say about all this?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Trevelyan. You know, your boss?”

At that, Cullen scowled. “Do you mean _the Inquisitor_?” he asked in a tone Alistair knew well from their training days.

So Alistair responded as he had during their training days — with an eye roll. “She’s not _my_ boss. And she’s not here.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t need to refer to her with respe —”

“Are you going to argue with me, or are you going to deflect?” Alistair asked. When Cullen didn’t respond, he continued, “What did _Inquisitor_ Trevelyan have to say? Other than not ordering you to take lyrium again, obviously.” He popped another piece of cheese in his mouth and nodded at Cullen’s bowl.

Cullen narrowed his eyes at him, but he did pick up his spoon and drank a few more mouthfuls of broth.

“She seemed pretty confident you won’t resign, but what was her opinion on your health?”

Cullen sighed. “She disagreed and told me to decide when I’m feeling better.”

“That’s it?”

Cullen drank several spoonfuls more, then stared at the half-full bowl in silence. Alistair almost asked again when he finally spoke up.

“I told her about what happened at the Circle,” Cullen said softly.

“About —” Alistair stopped himself.

Of course it was about that, what else would Cullen have been referring to? Alistair forced himself to focus, shoving away memories of Cullen in training, wanting to protect mages and serve the Maker; Cullen a decade ago, trapped in that horrible prison and demanding that they slaughter all the mages; Cullen last night, begging in his nightmares and lyrium fever for everything to end; Cullen today, mortified and avoidant.

 Then he cleared his throat and asked, in as steady a voice as possible, “What did she say?”

Cullen shook his head. “Nothing. She just … listened.” He met Alistair’s gaze. “I told her everything. I’ve never talked to anyone about it before.”

Alistair hated himself for the pang of jealousy he felt. Why hadn’t Cullen talked to him about it? He’d been there. He knew what Cullen had suffered.

But maybe that was why. Maybe Cullen had needed someone who hadn’t been in any way involved. Someone unconnected, with a fresh outlook.

Although he dearly wished he could have been the one in which Cullen had confided, Alistair was — and would forever be — grateful to Trevelyan for her kindness and understanding.

“I told her that between that and what happened in Kirkwall, I want nothing to do with the Order anymore,” said Cullen. “She understood. She told me that she wants me to stay, but won’t demand it of me. And then …” He shook his head, brow furrowed. “She asked what I wanted.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Do you know, in all my years of serving, I’ve never had any superior ask me that?”

Alistair’s fists clenched in rage on Cullen’s behalf. He’d had his issues with the Wardens over the years, but even they — the infamously secretive, strict, we’ll-do-anything-to-stop-the-Blight order — hadn’t used their people like that. ( _Until recently_ , said a nasty voice in his head.) Duncan had _asked_ if he wanted to join the Wardens and checked that he was sure several times before the Joining. After the Blight, Alistair had been given a choice, and when he’d declined to take on the position of Warden-Commander and Arl of Amaranthine, he was still valued as an asset to the Wardens. In fact, he was often consulted on important decisions, as his experiences and heroism (their word, not his) during the Blight garnered a certain respect. ( _Until recently_ , that nasty voice repeated.)

That the templars hadn’t cared enough to give a shit about their people, especially one who had given as much as Cullen had, was not in the least bit surprising to Alistair, but that didn’t make the situation any better or him any less enraged on Cullen’s behalf.

“I told her I didn’t want to take lyrium again,” Cullen continued, ignorant of Alistair’s runaway thoughts. “She said I could use the Inquisition to start over, and when I told her I wasn’t sure I could … she said that _she_ was.”

“Good.” Alistair’s intensity surprised even him; Cullen looked at him sharply. “That’s exactly what she should have said.”

Cullen shrugged. “She was more understanding than I deserve.”

“Why do you say that?” Alistair asked plaintively. His heart ached that Cullen didn’t even think he deserved something so simple. “Because fucking Greagoir and Meredith didn’t give a shit about you?”

Cullen winced, and Alistair wasn’t sure if it was because of his own swearing or the memories of his awful Knight-Commanders (Knights-Commander?). All he knew was that Cullen needed to hear the truth.

“This might sound like I’m speaking Orlesian, given your experiences” — Alistair tried a smirk, though it felt out of place, even for him — “but superiors are supposed to be understanding. That’s what real leadership is.”

“If I’m unable to fulfill my duties —”

“How would you react if one of your soldiers told you something similar? Would you accept their resignation without question, or would you be understanding?”

“It’s not the same.” Cullen shook his head. “I am in charge of our entire force. There are too many lives at stake.”

Alistair sighed. He couldn’t convince Commander Always-Logical via _logic_ ; that would be like playing chess with Cullen, who was an expert at both.

No, he couldn’t win at chess. But he might be able to win at a game of Wicked Grace. Except for the fact that he’d never been any good at Wicked Grace. As Leliana and Cassandra had both said in the past twenty-four hours, he was a horrific liar. When Zev had first taught him how to play — betting not money, but clothes, because Zev was nothing if not an opportunist — he’d assured Alistair that there were worse things in Thedas than being unable to bluff. At the time, since winning and losing resulted in the same, ahem, _happy ending_ , Alistair had agreed.

But Alistair had never before played a game of Wicked Grace with such high stakes. He needed to be able to play at Zev or Leliana’s level in order to convince Cullen.

So, channeling Zev, he let out a slightly dramatic sigh and sat back in his chair. “I don’t know how else to convince you, Cullen. Maybe I can’t.” He shrugged, and casually grabbed and nibbled on a piece of cheese. “Who did you suggest to replace you?”

Cullen raised his eyebrows and watched him for a long moment. Alistair held his breath. Cullen was a master chess player, a brilliant strategist, and naturally suspicious. If he suspected Alistair was up to something, this would all be over before it had even begun.

Alistair almost fell back on what their entire party during the Blight had called his _puppy dog eyes_. But that wasn’t what Zev would do. Before he could ask himself what Zev would do, he knew the answer. In fact, he’d used the same strategy with Dorian yesterday without realizing.

“What?” he demanded of Cullen. “I’m out of ideas. You’ve always been a better strategist than me. And a far more of a stubborn bastard.” He smirked at that, though Cullen didn’t seem amused. “And, I suppose you’re right about your health.” He shrugged and looked away, but only so he could regain control of his facial expressions. _Think of Zev._ “So let’s say the Inquisitor accepts your resignation — who would you suggest to replace you?”

With a tilt of his head, Cullen frowned. “I don’t know. Cassandra and I agreed she would find a replacement, should it be necessary.”

Alistair nodded, eminently reasonable. “Obviously. But I’m sure you have suggestions. You know the job. At least one of your lieutenants could do it, I’m sure.”

Cullen snorted. “A few, but I doubt any of them would want to.”

“What about the Iron Bull?”

Cullen shook his head. “He has the Chargers. And since he’s technically Ben-Hassrath, that wouldn’t be a good idea for anyone.”

Oh, right. Oops.

“Hmm,” Alistair said, tapping his chin. “Blackwall? He seems to know how to lead people, and Duncan always said good things about him. That is, if he’s not hearing the Calling like me.”

He wasn’t, Alistair knew, and had in fact known since the moment he’d met Blackwall. He’d long ago gained the ability to not only sense darkspawn, but also other Wardens, and if Blackwall was a Warden, Alistair would give up cheese forever. Duncan had often spoken of a Warden-Constable Blackwall, and Duncan was not a stupid or easily fooled man. Alistair wasn’t sure exactly who the man was or if Blackwall was even his real name, which was the only reason he hadn’t said anything to Leliana or Cullen. But he was intensely suspicious of the “Warden” Blackwall, so it was a good thing his suggestion wasn’t an honest one.

As for Cullen, he hummed, but said nothing else, and Alistair filed that away for later. Back to the topic at hand.

“Well, there’s —” Alistair stopped, honestly trying to think of who else in the Inner Circle could be a replacement. “Not Sera, obviously.” Cullen leveled a mild glare from the corner of his eyes, but Alistair, even as he worried it might be too much, tapped his chin and gave an exaggerated, full-body shrug. “Hawke?”

Cullen looked at him sharply, eyes wide. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re right.” Alistair waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “Cassandra would never go for that.”

Cullen actually scoffed, staring at Alistair as if he’d lost his mind, and Alistair worked hard to keep a straight face. _Think of Zev._

“I can’t think of anyone in Ferelden with that sort of experience,” Alistair continued. “I hate to suggest it, but maybe there’s an Orlesian chevalier who’s feeling underappreciated amid all this civil war nonsense.”

With a concerted effort, he ignored Cullen’s twitching jaw and focused on staring into the middle distance. After a minute or so, he shrugged and sat back in his chair once again.

“Oh, well. Cassandra’s smart. She’ll find someone,” Alistair said dismissively. “I mean, it’s not like they need to enjoy the job. You don’t.”

“That’s not true.” Cullen softly addressed what remained of his first bowl of broth.

“Oh,” Alistair said, dropping the bluff in his honest surprise. He might have been on the right track up to this point, but he was no Zev at Wicked Grace.

He had always assumed that Cullen served the Inquisition out of a sense of guilt; the thought that Cullen actually liked his job had never crossed his mind.

“I didn’t — I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and he was, but he couldn’t help one last attempt at a bluff. “I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you busy, though. You’ve always been able to find enough work to fill your time. Maybe you could make a dent in all those books.”

Cullen turned to his bookshelf. Alistair couldn’t see his face, but he did see Cullen’s head tip forward, as if dropping his gaze.

“I’d be willing to do anything that would help,” Cullen said. “I could serve as a captain or lieutenant under the new commander, provide advice —”

“Provide advice? Isn’t that essentially what you do now?”

“Or I could train troops,” Cullen continued, ignoring Alistair’s interruption. “Like I would have you do.”

Alistair snorted at that. “Oh, yes, excellent idea, put more physical strain on yourself, as if that wasn’t what started this all in the first place.”

“I would find something to do,” Cullen snapped. “And the Inquisition would have a more worthy commander.”

“Oh, so it’s about worthiness now?”

“And what if it is?” Cullen demanded.

Alistair shrugged, deliberately contrasting Cullen’s agitation with his own calm. “That just … doesn’t really sound like the Inquisition to me. The Inquisitor’s Inner Circle is the biggest group of diverse, bickering misfits I’ve seen in one place since the Blight. They all have their own shit and their own selfish reasons for joining the fight. I don’t understand why you consider yourself unworthy to be counted among them.”

“Because they are all giving their best to the cause. Why should I do any less?”

“Huh.” Alistair blinked. “You’re not giving your best?” He tilted his head from side to side, pretending to ponder that. “I suppose you’re right. Working yourself half to death is really not the best you can offer the Inquisition.”

“Do not play the fool. We both know that you know what I mean.”

“Eat your broth.” Alistair shoved several pieces of cheese into his mouth. “I’m ahead now,” he said.

Or rather, attempted to say. It came out more like “Ahm aheh nah.”

Cullen wrinkled his nose in disgust, but obligingly sipped a dozen or so spoonfuls of broth.

When Alistair finished chewing his cheese — now wishing that he’d savored them — he asked gently, “You don’t honestly think you would be better on lyrium, do you? Drugged into a stupor, barely capable of independent thought, exactly where the Chantry wants you?”

Cullen clenched his fists and shook his head. “Lyrium allows me to see things _more_ clearly —”

“Bullshit,” Alistair snapped. “That’s the Chantry talking, and you know it. You told me you want to serve the Inquisition out of loyalty and not blind faith. That you won’t let lyrium steal any more of you than it already has. That you want to be you, Cullen Rutherford, and not whoever someone else wants you to be. So don’t you dare tell me lyrium makes you better.”

Cullen buried his face in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was small, almost a whimper, just like it had been last night. “What if I make the wrong decision? What if the Inquisitor needs my advice and I am incapable of thinking clearly due to a headache or lack of sleep and she or a member of the Inner Circle or some of my soldiers —”

His voice broke. On instinct, Alistair placed his hand on Cullen’s shoulder and squeezed, though he should have asked first. Thankfully, Cullen didn’t seem to mind, because he didn’t pull away or even flinch.

Alistair allowed Cullen to feel whatever he was feeling — likely some toxic combination of shame, sadness, anger, fear, and who knew what else — for a few minutes, then he waited a few more to let Cullen take several shaky breaths and gather himself. Only when it seemed Cullen was finally in control again did he dare speak.

“Cullen.”

A sniff and another shaky breath.

“Cullen, look at me.”

Cullen lifted his head, hesitant and slow, until their gazes met. Those lovely amber eyes were streaked with red, and the defeated expression on his face broke Alistair’s heart.

Alistair had thought it plenty in the past two days, but it always bore repeating — Maker, but he loathed the Chantry. For taking advantage of Cullen’s faith and giving him lyrium, for upping his lyrium ration instead of helping him deal with the trauma from Kinloch, for brainwashing a loyal, faithful templar into believing that the harm he’d done was not so bad, or perhaps even good.

For taking so much from this kind-hearted, loyal, faithful man that he had no choice but to shatter his mind and body in order to save himself.

For causing the stoic Cullen Rutherford to doubt himself to the point of tears.

“What if I can’t? What if —”

“Shut up,” Alistair asked, smirking. “For once in your life, can you be serious and just listen?”

From the slight quirk of Cullen’s lips, Alistair could tell that he understood the reference. Back during their training, Cullen would say the same when he got tired of Alistair’s continuous jokes and antics. It had always been a sign that Cullen was frustrated and that whatever he was about to say was important.

For an instant, in an urge he neither understood nor cared to examine right now, Alistair almost took Cullen’s face in his hands.

Thankfully, he realized just in time how inappropriate that would be — aside from Cullen’s general dislike of touch, such a gesture was far too intimate for … whatever relationship they were in the process of rekindling and repairing.

Instead, he redirected his hands to Cullen’s shoulders which, while still a form of touch, was something Cullen seemed to be okay with right now.

“First of all, you are not alone,” Alistair said. “You have Cassandra and Leliana and Trev” — Alistair ignored Cullen’s eye twitch — “and Bull and Dorian and any number of other people that won’t let you fail. They’ll step in if you’re ill or not thinking clearly, and they’ll do it because they know that you’re who they need during the times you aren’t sick.”

Cullen stared at his hands and said nothing, which Alistair took as absorbing and thinking.

“Second, I —” Without warning, Alistair’s voice gave out, his chest filling with an anxiety he hadn’t intended to let loose. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with the Wardens. But I know they’re up to something really, really bad, and I know that I have to stop it. And if the Inquisition is going to help me do that …” He gripped Cullen’s shoulders tightly. “There is no one I trust more to have my back with an entire army than you.”

After a few moments, Alistair realized just how close their faces were — too close, close enough to rest their foreheads together, which he had a sudden and inexplicable desire to do. Instead, he pulled away and wiped his face roughly.

Cullen just stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly open, eyes glistening. Then he looked away. “You give me far too much credit.”

“And you don’t give yourself enough.”

They both fell silent, staring at but not touching their food. Alistair had no appetite now, and Cullen didn’t seem to, either.

The silence went on for so long that the beautiful, haunting music of the Calling nearly carried Alistair’s attention away with it. At the last second before he surrendered completely, Alistair asked, “Why did you join the Inquisition?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “You know why.”

“Yes, but I think it would do us both some good to hear it out loud.”

Cullen complied, but he sighed and seemed to recite the words from a script, monotonous and rote. Rather petulant of him, Alistair thought, but he supposed Cullen could be allowed a bit of leeway, considering the difficulties he’d faced the past two days. “I decided I couldn’t serve the Order anymore, and when Cassandra asked me to serve, I saw it as a chance to do some good and attempt to atone for my mistakes in Kirkwall.” He snorted, then added dryly, “The plan for the original Inquisition fell apart rather quickly after that. I was never supposed to command the largest army in Thedas.”

That last settled uneasily in the pit of Alistair’s stomach. “Is that the issue? You didn’t sign up for this?”

“No.” Cullen shrugged. “Perhaps?” He leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Do you feel like you’ve done some good?”

Cullen let out a long breath. “We’ve helped rebuild places affected by the mage-templar war. We stopped a Tevinter magister from enslaving the Fereldan mages at Redcliffe. Refugees from Haven and elsewhere have settled here to join our cause. We negotiated a peace in Orlais’s civil war.” His brow furrowed at the ceiling, but he nodded. “Yes. The Inquisition has done a lot of good, and I am proud to have been a part of that.”

The sick feeling in the pit of Alistair’s stomach intensified — why _have been_ rather than _be_?

There was one question Alistair had been holding back. His Angel of Death card, as it were, and now they were at the end. No more attempts at logic, no more strategizing, no more bluffs. This was it, his last chance, and there was no one left to channel.

It was all up to him.

And at this point, while he nothing left to lose (Cullen had already tried to resign), he had everything to gain.

“Do you want to stay?” Alistair asked.

Cullen frowned at the ceiling for a long time. Several minutes, which, in a one-on-one conversation, seemed to last for an Age.

Then, so soft Alistair struggled to hear it, Cullen whispered, “Yes.”

“Then _why_ —”

Alistair fell silent when Cullen leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees and staring hard at the tray of food he’d still barely touched.

“Because I refuse to give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry.” Cullen clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. “And I gave everything to the Chantry.”

“No, you didn’t,” Alistair said. “You gave them your trust and your faith, and they brainwashed and drugged and used you for their own purposes.”

Cullen shook his head.

“You are giving the Inquisition far more than you ever gave the Chantry.” Alistair leaned forward, arms now on his knees, like Cullen. “You’re giving them you. The real you. Freely, by choice. How can you possibly give any more than that?”

Cullen closed his eyes for several more long moments. Then, he opened them and asked, “Do you truly believe I am capable of this?”

“Absolutely not.”

Cullen winced, so Alistair rushed to finish.

“I know you are.”

At that, Cullen bowed his head, folding his hands as if he were praying.

Perhaps he was.

After a far shorter amount of time than Alistair expected — ten seconds at most — Cullen lifted his head with a sigh and nodded, gaze still upon his desk. “Very well.”

Alistair blinked, hardly daring to hope. “‘Very well’ what?”

Cullen’s lips curled upward in the first real smile Alistair had seen since yesterday. “I will retain my position as Commander.”

Alistair grinned.

Maybe he wasn’t so terrible at Wicked Grace after all.

 

* * *

 

Cullen nodded to himself and straightened with some effort. He still looked too ghoul-like for Alistair’s liking, but at least some color had returned to his cheeks. He picked up the spoon and finished off his first bowl of broth, and Alistair nearly rejoiced when he grabbed a small piece of bread and dipped it in the second bowl.

“Damn you.” The aggressive way Cullen ripped apart the bread, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed and swallowed might have been intended to exude annoyance or even threat, but Alistair could only grin. “Between you and the Inquisitor …”

Cullen dunked another chunk of bread into his broth, and another, and another, until both the bread and broth were almost gone. His appetite had apparently returned, voraciously so, and Alistair felt a tightness in his own chest loosen.

He hadn’t realized until just now how worried he’d actually been for Cullen.

Cullen paused in his eating and frowned as he finished chewing. “You thought she’d ordered me to take it again. That’s why you burst in here shouting at me.”

Alistair looked innocently skyward and popped a piece of cheese into his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I calmly opened the door, entered, and spoke to you in completely normal, reasonable tones —”

Cullen laughed, and though he was clearly tired, it was a genuine one. Alistair grinned in response.

They sat in the — if not happy, at least lighthearted — moment for several seconds.

Then Cullen, studying his broth like it was his latest door-stopper on military strategy, spoke softly. “Even after the way I treated you, you still —”

“Maker, _yes_.” Alistair’s heart caught in his throat, but he managed to make himself heard. “You’re going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me. I’m like the Blight — no matter how many horrible things you throw at me, I’ll keep coming back.”

Cullen stared at him, unamused.

“Oh, what, is the Blight not funny anymore? Since when?”

Cullen’s lips twitched, seemingly in spite of himself. “It’s not the best analogy for you, no.”

Alistair smiled. “Oh? Then what is?”

Cullen took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “The Blight is not funny, nor loyal, nor forgiving in the face of unkindness. You are rather … an anti-Blight.”

Cullen’s kind words echoing in his head — _funny_ , _loyal, forgiving_ — Alistair cocked an eyebrow. “So … I’m a Grey Warden?”

Cullen laughed once again, and Alistair could have danced the Remigold at the beautiful sound, until Cullen winced slightly. “I’ll admit it sounded better in my head.”

Alistair nodded toward said head. “Does it still hurt?”

 “Some.” Cullen leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “The food helps.”

“I imagine. You look better, at least.” And far, far less like a ghoul, thank the Maker.

Cullen shot Alistair a glance from the corner of his eye. “Than this morning? I should hope so. Maker knows I could hardly look or feel worse.”

Alistair smirked. If Cullen was making light of the situation — could that have even been a joke? — he was going to be okay.

_Funny. Loyal. Forgiving._

This time, the echoing words resulted in an immense wave of guilt. Because, while Alistair wanted to revel in Cullen’s good mood and sweet compliments, he had a confession of his own to make.

“Um, about that …” Alistair cleared his throat. “This morning, I mean. I never intended to break your trust, but I kind of …” A deep breath for courage. “Interrogated Cassandra about your argument and told her I knew about the lyrium and then she convinced me she should know everything and exactly how it happened, so I told her most of the details. I didn’t tell anyone else,” he added with the last of his breath because Cullen needed to understand. Then he took a long pause for a new breath, and continued more slowly. “I’m sorry. You just called me loyal, but —”

“Thank you,” Cullen said softly.

Alistair blinked as Cullen’s words registered. “What?”

“She needs to know so she can look for patterns.” Cullen pushed his tray away. “Thank you for telling her when I couldn’t.”

Alistair sighed. “You asked her to watch you. She, more than anybody, should be the one person you _can_ tell.”

“No, I meant — I told her about the episode.” Cullen leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his forehead in his hands. “But I couldn’t tell her any details. I don’t remember them.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped. Did Cullen not remember _anything_? Not the nightmares or collapsing or — did he not remember Alistair helping, or even asking for help?

Maker, no wonder he’d reacted the way he did this morning.

“It’s a severe side effect of the withdrawals.” It was Cullen’s turn to rush through an explanation. “Long-term lyrium use can cause memory loss. I don’t know if that’s part of what causes me to not remember, though. Cassandra considers them more like fever dreams, which I tend to agree with. I remember things in flashes, but I’m not sure what was real and what was …”

“Hallucinations,” Alistair said softly.

Cullen dropped his gaze. “Yes. I — I remember —” He rubbed his face roughly with both hands before running them through his hair, gripping it hard enough to pull. “I’m so sorry,” he said, voice trembling on the verge of tears. “It’s all a blur, I don’t — I wish …” He let out a loud groan of frustration.

Alistair instinctively reached out a hand to comfort, but this time he stopped himself before making contact; though Cullen was clearly in distress, he was no longer so upset or delirious that he wouldn’t notice, and the last thing Alistair wanted was to make things worse.

“Shh. It’s okay,” he said, and did what he should have been doing all along. “Can I — is it okay if I touch you?”

Cullen froze for a moment, then lifted his head, eyes wide and watery as they met Alistair’s.

Alistair yanked his hand back and sat on it. “Okay. That’s fine. I won’t.”

“No, I —” Cullen croaked before clearing his throat. “It’s just — no one’s ever asked me that before. How did you …?”

Was he asking how Alistair knew? As if it wasn’t blatantly obvious?

Alistair shrugged, an attempt to appear nonchalant. “You tense when people get too close. I’ve put a hand on your shoulder a few times, and you flinched. Since I realized it wasn’t situational, I’ve been trying to keep my distance.”

“It’s not anything to worry about,” Cullen said, shaking his head. “I try not to draw attention to it. I understand that many people in the Inquisition, including yourself, do so with affection and mean no harm, and I am attempting to become used to —”

“You don’t have to explain. And you don’t have to get used to it, either. If you don’t like it, say so.”

Cullen sighed. “I’d rather not. It’s an oddity. Varric regularly announces my strange quirks aloud in an effort to tease me, and Leliana and Josephine joined in after the Winter Palace. I would rather not invite further scrutiny.”

Alistair’s heart plummeted to somewhere around his navel, where it sparked into a protective anger. “What exactly happened at the Winter Palace?”

“Nothing in particular,” Cullen rushed to say, and Alistair noticed he was avoiding his gaze again. “But the idea of boundaries is near to nonexistent in Orlais. The number of times I was touched by masked nobles —” He took a sudden shaky breath, almost a gasp, and with an apparent effort, let it out slowly. “Suffice to say it was not an experience I wish to repeat.”

“I’m so sorry,” Alistair whispered, making a mental note to have a stern conversation with Leliana tomorrow. “Did the Winter Palace remind you of —” He stopped, horrified. As if Cullen needed an additional reminder of the events at the Circle after what he’d confessed to Trev earlier.

“Yes.” The word was so soft Alistair almost didn’t hear it. “I was happy to leave as soon as our business was finished.”

Alistair wondered if Cassandra knew about the depth of Cullen’s mental scars. Maybe he’d talk with her so that she could speak up in Cullen’s defense in the future.

“It’s different, though.” Cullen’s fingers threaded tightly with each other as he addressed them. “With you, that is. Before, when you held my shoulders. It was …” His breath rushed out of him. “Different. It helped.”

Alistair was grateful that Cullen wasn’t looking at him because his eyes welled with tears. “I’m glad. But I’ll be more careful from now on.”

Cullen shook his head and finally looked up. “That’s not necessary. Not for you. Did you —” He swallowed. “That is, last night, did you … do that?”

Alistair nodded, throat burning. “Yeah. It seemed to help.”

“I am truly beyond sorry for the way I treated you this morning,” said Cullen, voice shaking once again. “I was mortified. I have been careful to hide my withdrawals from all save Cassandra, and because I respect you and value you as a friend and colleague, I did not wish for you to see me at my weakest. But I deeply regret my reaction, and that you, of all people, bore the brunt of my embarrassment. I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”

“First of all,” Alistair said, waving a hand. “We already went over this — I forgive you. And second …” Now he held his hand out as if to shake Cullen’s. “We haven’t met. I’m Alistair, your friend, and I would never describe what I saw from you last night as ‘weak.’ Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Cullen bowed his head. “I know you mean well, but please don’t.”

Alistair sighed heavily. Then he reached out and put a hand on Cullen’s shoulder.

Cullen didn’t flinch; in fact, he glanced at Alistair’s hand, took a deep breath, and once again met Alistair’s gaze.

“Let me tell you something,” Alistair said. “You called me your friend, right? Well, you’re my friend, too. And I don’t lie to my friends.” He grinned. “Sometimes I tell them too much. Remember that first night we drank together, when I told you about the Calling?”

Cullen nodded.

“This may surprise you, considering how difficult I find _not_ talking …”

Second time was the charm — the self-deprecating Alistair-talks-too-much joke finally brought a hint of a smile to Cullen’s lips.

“Believe it or not, I’ve never told anyone that. Parts of it, yeah. But the whole thing, about the Calling and the Taint and the ticking clock? Just you.”

Not even Zev had gotten Alistair to open up that much, but Cullen didn’t need to know that.

Cullen frowned, and the sudden pity on his face and in his eyes made Alistair squirm. He nodded. “I know. You use humor to hide your true feelings. It took me longer than I’m proud of to figure out, but I’ve been able to tell since back in training.”

Alistair gaped, both embarrassed at being so obvious and flattered that Cullen cared enough to notice.

No, flattered didn’t cover how he felt. It didn’t explain his shortness of breath, or the way his heart pounded, or the fluttering in his stomach at the utter sincerity and kind understanding in Cullen’s beautiful eyes.

Looking away, Alistair swallowed. “I, uh — yes. Well, the reason I brought it up was to stress that I will never lie to you. Ever. Not unless you want me to.”

“I don’t. I wish for us to always be honest with each other.”

“Then believe me when I tell you that I saw what you went through last night. You do know that some people — a lot of people, even — _die_ from lyrium withdrawal?” Alistair squeezed Cullen’s shoulder. “But you didn’t. You refused to give in, even though it looked like you were in pain I can’t even imagine. I mean it when I say that I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

Cullen swallowed, eyes squeezing shut.

“Well, okay, maybe I’d wish it on the archdemon,” Alistair amended, keeping his voice light. “But that barely counts.”

He could have sworn Cullen’s lips twitched upward.

“I swear by Andraste and the Maker himself that last night, I saw you do the bravest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Cullen inhaled to protest, but Alistair cut him off.

“I’m not lying, and I’m not exaggerating. I promised you I wouldn’t, and I’m not.”

Cullen sniffed and wiped his face before he could speak. “I owe you a similar promise, then. I will never lie to you, either. Nor did I, this morning, when — I truly did not remember, until you mentioned it, that I had, in fact, asked you not to leave. You have made it clear that I am not to apologize anymore, but there is one thing I have not yet spoken aloud to you, and that is this: I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Alistair shook his head and prepared to protest but, in an unusual reversal, Cullen cut him off this time.

“I do, Alistair. Truly. Without your presence last night …” Cullen hesitated, and he did something that shocked Alistair.

He placed his hand on Alistair’s shoulder.

Alistair froze. Cullen had never initiated any sort of touch with him that was not a professional courtesy (such as a handshake). The weight of Cullen’s hand was comforting, but the feel of it sent a shiver down Alistair’s spine. Once again, his stomach fluttered, his heart pounded, and he held his breath, lest even the slightest hint of movement scare Cullen into taking his hand away.

He stared at Cullen’s mouth, only to realize it was moving and that he should probably be paying attention to what Cullen was saying.

“… not sure how last night would have gone had you not been there. I do not remember all that transpired, but —”

Cullen closed his eyes, and then he — Maker’s breath — he _squeezed_ Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair worried his heart might give out from beating so hard, but then Cullen opened his eyes again and continued, as if Alistair had given him the strength to do so.

“I have always been alone during my previous episodes,” Cullen said, “and although this one was particularly severe, your presence was a — a salve, of sorts, I suppose, as well as a grounding influence. You kept me tethered to reality. I slept far better than expected after listening to you talk about all your favorite cheeses.”

He said this last with a smirk that tugged on the scar above his lip and Maker, that smirk _did things_ to Alistair’s insides, which made Alistair want to _do things_ to Cullen _—_ impossible things, unthinkable and inappropriate things, oh so many nice things — and he had to breathe slowly and lean back in his chair to regain control.

Unfortunately, that meant breaking the connection between his shoulder and Cullen’s hand, which saddened him but allowed Cullen to lean back in his own chair with only the smallest of winces.

Alistair cleared his throat in an attempt to clear his mind and … other parts … of dangerous thoughts, and managed to rasp, “If I helped you even a little, I’m happy.” And because Cullen was gazing at him now, calm and content, Alistair distracted himself further by asking, “Do you know — was it our sparring match that triggered it?”

Cullen let out a deep sigh. “Yes. But please do not blame yourself. I was actually … well, having fun, believe it or not —”

“Not.” Alistair’s eyebrows lifted. “Cullen Rutherford, having fun? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Cullen pressed his lips together, but the effort hardly dampened the smile Alistair’s words conjured. “Please, for the love of the Maker, do not tell Mia. I would surely never live it down.”

Alistair laughed. Cullen’s older sister was a common topic between them. Though he listened to Cullen’s complaints about her “prying,” he was impressed with Mia’s determination to find her brother and, frankly, her insistent love for him. And secretly, in a place he kept even from Cullen, he was a little jealous. He had never, and would never, have family who cared as much as Cullen’s did.

And Maker, if Cullen didn’t chuckle in response — before sobering again and continuing, of course, because no humor could ever keep Cullen Rutherford from making a point.

“I truly did enjoy sparring with you. But I pushed myself too hard in my enjoyment and my … pride, I suppose. I couldn’t very well surrender, and not in front of my soldiers. If you hadn’t declared a draw —” Whether Alistair’s face gave something away or Cullen figured it out himself, his eyebrows shot to his hairline. “You knew.”

Alistair shrugged, prepared to brush it all off, when Cullen said, sounding hurt, “You promised no lies.”

Alistair rubbed his forehead as he tried to find the proper words without hurting Cullen more. “I —” A frustrated sigh escaped him, and he tried again. “You stumbled on simple footwork, and I noticed you were too pale and breathing too hard. The third time it happened, I called the draw.”

“Which is why you asked if I was all right,” Cullen said, nodding along as pieces fell into place. “But you said nothing.”

“Not in front of your soldiers. And when I met you for lunch, you seemed like you were in a pretty good mood even though I could tell your head hurt, and then you ran off to meet with Leliana …”

Cullen closed his eyes and bowed his head. “And when you returned for dinner, you found me like … that.” Alistair could barely hear the last word, nearly whispered as it was. “She was right.”

“Who?”

“Leliana.”

Alistair gripped the arms of his chair so he could launch himself out of it and march straight up to the Nightingale’s tower to give her a piece of his mind. He’d _told_ her —

But Cullen’s hand grabbed his arm. “Alistair, please —”

“What did she say?” Alistair gritted his teeth so hard they began to grind.

Cullen snorted. “At first, nothing. A few of each of our subordinates were present, and we went through the agenda as planned. Although she glared metaphorical daggers at me, she kept her real ones and any cutting words sheathed. At least until the meeting adjourned, when she addressed me by my title and asked me to stay a moment. I wasn’t sure exactly what she wished to discuss, but I could tell she was angry with me.”

He leaned back in his chair once again, letting his hand fall away from Alistair’s arm, which Alistair felt keenly in the aching of his chest.

“She cornered me against the war table, but spoke so quietly I had to lean in to hear her.” Cullen shook himself slightly, and Alistair clenched his fists. “She said, ‘He is too kind and loyal for his own good, and it is only because of his mercy that I have not drawn my knife across any of your appendages. Consider this your warning.’ And then she left.”

“I didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know or hadn’t figured out for herself,” Alistair said urgently. Cullen at least needed to understand that. “And I _told_ her not to say anything to you!”

“Do not be angry with her. She cares for you.” Cullen bowed his head. “And you deserve friends who would fight anyone who dared hurt you.”

That sounded so ominous. It was a kind thing for Cullen to say, but Alistair couldn’t help but feel there was a _but_ coming.

“Leliana was right, that you are far too kind and loyal to those who don’t deserve it. But I promise you this — going forward, I will do everything in my power to be worthy of your friendship. Because _you_ deserve it.”

Alistair’s vision blurred, and his throat stung sharply. He would have words with Leliana later, but right now, his heart felt full to bursting. Because Cullen wanted and valued him as a friend.

He summoned his usual grin. “Fine. But only if we can agree to put this all behind us. I don’t want to be responsible for you feeling guilty and making yourself sick. Deal?”

He stuck out his hand for a handshake. It was an odd, too formal gesture for a serious moment, but if he were honest, he really wanted Cullen to —

Cullen took his hand in a firm grip — sending a shock all the way up his arm — and gave it a small shake. “Agreed,” he said, returning Alistair’s smile with one of his own.

And oh, what a smile it was. Alistair’s insides twisted and turned in a fluttering almost painful in its intensity. His face burned, and he looked away before he said or did something truly stupid, but right now Cullen was the one good thing in his life, and he couldn’t be happier that it would continue to stay that way.

 

* * *

 

Alistair would have been more than content to sit there, grinning at Cullen and dissecting every minute detail of Cullen’s smile in return.

Cullen, of course, had other ideas.

“Would you be willing to, uh …” Cullen released Alistair’s hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell me what happened last night? I may be able to recall more when events are discussed, as I did this morning. I do not wish to sacrifice any more memories to lyrium than necessary.”

Alistair nodded, still blinking away his previous enthrallment.

“Not tonight, of course,” Cullen said hurriedly. “As everyone keeps telling me, I really should get some rest.”

Alistair stood up so quickly he nearly knocked his chair over backward. “Yes! Maker, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have —”

Cullen held up a hand. “Please do not apologize. I am relieved and grateful that this conversation occurred.”

He pushed himself to his feet and swayed, leaning hard against the desk.

Alistair dove to grab him, but froze, remembering himself.

Cullen closed his eyes in a wince of pain, nodding. “Yes. I think I shall —”

But Alistair was already there, hand on Cullen’s arm and providing the necessary support.

“— need your assistance,” Cullen finished, frowning at his needless conclusion.

Alistair pulled Cullen’s arm around his shoulder and asked, “Upstairs?”

“Ideally.”

They shared a smirk at Cullen’s dry humor.

At the foot of the ladder, Cullen stopped and stared for a long time at the and the streaks of glowing blue powder that surrounded the shattered pieces of wood and glass that had once been his lyrium kit.

“Cullen.” Alistair gently tugged on his arm, worried Cullen might work himself up again.

“Usually I keep it at the very back of the lowest drawer of my desk.” Cullen’s voice was soft and carefully neutral. “I pulled it out after I argued with Cassandra, and I — I almost —”

The bottom dropped out of Alistair’s stomach. Cullen had been that close to giving in, and instead of following him like he’d wanted, Alistair had listened to Hawke and gone to talk with Cassandra instead. What if …

“What stopped you?” he asked, still supporting Cullen’s weight.

Cullen continued to stare at the remnants of the kit. “I threw it at the wall. And almost hit the Inquisitor.”

“Oh. Shit.” Trev had conveniently forgotten to mention that when they spoke.

Cullen let out a small huff that might have been a laugh. “Indeed. She joked about it when I apologized, but I still — I should apologize again.”

Alistair squeezed the arm he was holding. “I think she understands.”

“Still.” Cullen’s gaze lingered. “I should clean it up.”

“You should rest,” Alistair said. “I can clean it up.”

Cullen brought a shaking hand up, made a fist, and pressed it hard into his own forehead. “I can hear it,” he whispered. “I need to —”

As he took a step toward the kit, Alistair, still supporting his weight, rounded on him.

“You don’t.”

“I can’t just leave it there …”

“I can clean it up —”

“No,” Cullen snapped. “I need to do it.”

Alistair thought fast. Cullen obviously _shouldn’t_ do it, and definitely not alone. Alistair could watch him, but what if Cullen just … ran a finger through the lyrium powder and licked it? If he was determined, Alistair wouldn’t be quick enough.

But the kit itself was a symbol to Cullen — which was, of course, the point of them. The damned things had Andraste carved into the lid, for Maker’s sake. Lyrium was only one tool the Chantry used to keep templars leashed; but, as the most direct tool, it was also the most obvious and, in some ways, easiest to break. What really kept templars leashed was the combination of the lyrium and the manipulation of their faith and beliefs, both in the Maker and in themselves. The kits were a constant reminder, every time a templar took a draught, that they were a servant of Andraste, that to abandon lyrium would be to abandon her, to abandon the Chantry, to abandon their vows and their purpose.

Alistair didn’t know why Cullen kept the kit around. There were many reasons that didn’t include “just in case I need some later.” It could have been a reminder — of the harm lyrium had caused him, of the manipulations of the Chantry, of the reasons he no longer wanted to take lyrium, even of his faith in Andraste and how he could maintain that even without the lyrium. But no matter the reason, the kit was important to Cullen, and Alistair would respect that.

“What if,” he suggested, “you sit down and watch me clean it up.”

“But —”

Alistair held up a placating hand. “That way you aren’t tempted by the lyrium. Then I can give you the kit and you can do what you need to do with it.”

Cullen frowned, mulling the compromise over, still staring — or was he glaring? — at the pieces of the lyrium kit.

Finally, he nodded. “All right.”

He leaned on the ladder while Alistair fetched his chair, and he watched as sharply as one of Leliana’s ravens while Alistair cleaned up the mess.

Alistair wasn’t particularly sensitive to the song, but the powder was a concentrated form of lyrium, meant to be mixed into a draught, so even he could hear it. In fact, for a blissful few minutes until he’d swept it all up and tossed it over the battlements just outside, the lyrium song actually blocked out the Calling.

Huh. Maybe he should take up lyrium, and —

No. He couldn’t even think a joke like that.

The kit itself was more or less intact. Only a few of the dozen or so glass vials of lyrium had broken, and the lid was somewhat precariously attached now, but otherwise Alistair only had to replace the tools and vials to their respective places. When finished, he stood and handed it to Cullen, who ran his hand over the carving of Andraste.

“How do you —” Alistair lost his nerve when Cullen looked up at him.

“How do I what?”

Alistair let out one of those bitter, mirthless laughs he hated — and judging from the frown on his face, Cullen did, too — and waved at the kit.

“How do you not just rail against it all? How can you get down on your knees and pray to the Maker when _He’s_ the reason for all of this?”

“Because He’s not,” Cullen said softly. “Nor is Andraste.” He stood, and though Alistair offered, refused help in crossing back to his desk. “The words ‘templar’ and ‘Circle’ do not appear in the Chant, and the word ‘lyrium’ only appears once in reference to the ancient Tevinter magisters . The sins of the Chantry are those of people, not the Maker. My faith has helped me through every trial I have faced, and I have no doubt it will continue to do so.”

Alistair found himself a little jealous of Cullen’s unshakable faith. He had never been particularly religious, and everything he’d seen had only been further examples of why.

“That’s … admirable,” he said.

Cullen shrugged, opening a drawer in his desk. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply fear the alternative more."

He did not place the lyrium kit inside the drawer, however; instead, he looked back and forth between the two.

Rather than gawk as Cullen seemed to be making an important personal decision, Alistair wandered to the other end of Cullen’s desk and picked up the remaining bits of cheese, slipping them into his pocket.

When he looked up, Cullen was watching him rather intently.

“What? I’m not going to waste all this.”

Cullen’s gaze dropped to the desk, atop which still sat the tray and now-empty bowls of broth, and he frowned.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt —”

Without warning, Cullen opened the lid, strode across the room, and proceeded to dump the entire contents of the kit (including the lyrium vials) out the window.

Alistair did gawk then, as Cullen gently closed the lid of the kit, returned to the open drawer, and placed the now (physically) empty box inside.

When Cullen met his eyes, Alistair smirked. “Did you think of that because of what you threatened to do to my innocent cheese?”

Cullen’s lips quirked ever-so-slightly upward. “It was a good idea, just the wrong item.”

They held each other’s gaze in silence, and Alistair wasn’t exactly sure what Cullen wanted him to say, or even what he needed to hear.

But he knew what _he_ wanted to say. “I’m proud of you, Cullen. I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”

Cullen looked away, cheeks pinking. He’d never been good at taking compliments. (Said Alistair, as if he was any better.) Then Cullen shrugged. “It was foolish of me not to toss it into the sea on the way from Kirkwall.”

“Maybe you weren’t ready then.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed, and he nodded several times in quick succession — a rather standard gesture for Alistair, who always had more energy than he knew what to do with, but a rare one for Cullen, who was always in control.

When Cullen looked up and met Alistair’s gaze once again, his eyes were watery. “Thank you.”

His own vision blurring more than he’d have liked, Alistair smiled. “What are friends for?”

 

* * *

 

Cullen cleared his throat, and a sudden weariness seemed to visibly wash over him. “I rather think I should rest now, before anything else distracts me.”

Alistair grinned at that. “You’re probably right.”

Whether due to a renewed energy from dumping his lyrium kit or good old Rutherford stubbornness, Cullen managed to cross the room and even climb the ladder without assistance, albeit slowly. Alistair followed him up, inadvertently distracted by the view of the Commander’s incredibly toned, er … muscles.

Yes. Generic muscles. Certainly not those of any particular body part.

Once Cullen disappeared into the loft, Alistair flew up the last several rings, only to find Cullen on one knee, bracing himself with his hands against the floor.

Alistair rushed to his side, falling to his knees next to him as Cullen let out a grunt of pain.

“Hey, hey,” Alistair soothed, one hand on Cullen’s back, the other on his arm. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“I know.” Cullen brought his arm up, fumbling for a few seconds before Alistair realized what he was grasping for.

His hand.

Ignoring any fanciful implications, Alistair clasped their hands together and used them as a point of leverage to help Cullen to his feet and the last few steps to the bed.

Though a little less clammy and pale than last night, Cullen shivered as Alistair helped him into bed.

“Do you want, um …” Maker, anything he could say right now would sound so incredibly inappropriate. For his own sake, he released Cullen’s hand. “Do you usually sleep clothed?”

Well, that was probably the least worst phrasing.

“Um …” In spite of his pallor, a tinge of pink blossomed on Cullen’s cheeks.

“You know what, I’ll just let you take care of that when I leave.” Alistair looked around the room for anything else he could do.

Before Alistair realized what was happening, Cullen had pulled off his shirt. He didn’t meet Alistair’s eyes, though, which would have been impossible anyway because they went right to Cullen’s bare chest.

“Do you know what happened to the shirt I wore yesterday?” Cullen asked, intently focused on folding his current shirt into a wrinkle-less square. “I didn’t find it among my armor and boots. And thank you for, I assume, helping me remove it and rack it.”

“Ah, yes, your shirt.” Alistair scratched the back of his head. “It was … ruined.”

Cullen frowned. “How?”

No lies, he’d promised.

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Weeeell, it was drenched in sweat, and you were … not really in a state for me to take it off normally, so I ripped it down the front so you could shrug it off like a coat.”

“Ah. I’m sorry you had to …” Cullen dropped his fastidiously folded shirt onto the floor next to his bed and lay down. “At any rate, thank you.” He pulled the covers up to his neck quickly and added, once again refusing to meet Alistair’s gaze, “I, um — that is — It has been a rather difficult ten years. Too many things have left permanent marks.”

It took Alistair a moment to understand that Cullen was attempting to explain away his scars.

Oh, Cullen. Alistair’s heart ached for him. If only he knew how beautiful he was, scars and all.

But Cullen didn’t need that sort of reassurance. He needed his friend Alistair.

“Are you kidding?” Alistair grinned. “Maybe when you’re feeling better, we can compare. We can assign prizes for highest number and ‘closest to dying.’”

Cullen frowned deeply; apparently he didn’t appreciate Alistair’s attempt at gallows humor this time.

In retrospect, neither did Alistair.

“Anyway,” Alistair continued, trying to salvage the situation. “I hear that women love scars.”

Cullen’s eyes flicked to Alistair and then quickly to his ceiling. “Do they, now?” he asked softly.

Alistair shrugged. “That’s what I hear, anyway. Men, too, if Dorian’s anyone to go by. He actually suggested that next time we should spar shirtless.”

Mortified, he felt his face heat. Had he actually said that out loud? What was he thinking?

Cullen chuckled. “I’m sure he did. He’s suggested such exercises for my soldiers before. I’ve never known whether he was kidding or not.”

“Probably a bit of both. Anyway!” Alistair clapped his hands. “Is there anything else I can get you before I let you rest? Aside from, you know, the repair of that giant hole in your roof.”

“Yes, actually.” Cullen blinked heavily, but he seemed determined not to fall asleep just yet. “I, um … Would you … That is, do you think you could …”

Alistair sat down in the same chair he’d slept in last night so that he was at Cullen’s eye level.

“Hey,” he said softly, placing a gentle hand on Cullen’s arm. “It’s me. Tell me what you need. I’m here.”

Cullen turned his head to face Alistair, but his eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. “Do you think — I’m not sure what will — Will you stay?” He slid his arm up the bed until he could found Alistair’s hand. “Please?”

And he clasped Alistair’s hand in his as if it were a lifeline.

And although his heart pounded and his stomach fluttered, Alistair ignored everything except for Cullen, and squeezed his hand back.

“An archdemon couldn’t keep me away,” he whispered.

Cullen’s eyes opened at that. “You used that one already.”

Alistair threw up his free hand and sighed dramatically. “Oh, _that_ you remember? How convenient. What good is your memory loss if I can’t reuse all my good lines?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Yes, how dare I remember the kind things you said when I was ill.” He emphasized that dry tone with a slightly raised eyebrow. “In the future, I’ll try to forget everything you say immediately after I hear it.”

“Why not? Everyone else does.”

Alistair immediately regretted the comment; he was supposed to be focusing on Cullen, not himself. But those sorts of acidic retorts were a habit by now, and they often slipped out before he could stop them.

“That’s not true.” Cullen studied him seriously. “The soldiers you trained with yesterday have shown great improvement.” He scoffed. “Maybe you should be commander.”

“No thanks. Too much pressure and responsibility. Besides, I hear the current one’s pretty good. And don’t roll your eyes at me,” Alistair said as Cullen did. “What are friends for, if not to protect us from ourselves?”

Cullen smiled, though weakly. “What a pair we make,” he murmured. “I’d say that it’s unclear which of us has it worse, but that would be a lie.” He sighed at the ceiling. “It’s clearly me.” His eyes flicked to Alistair as that scar of his curled along with his upper lip.

Alistair snorted at the utterly unexpected — though it shouldn’t have been by now — self-deprecating humor and sarcasm. “I said it last night and I’ll say it again — you’re a real smart ass when you’re delirious.”

And like last night, he kind of liked it. A lot.

“Not delirious,” Cullen said. “Just exhausted.”

One could be delirious from exhaustion, but Alistair didn’t think that was worth arguing right now.

“Then rest,” he said instead. “I’ll be here.”

Cullen nodded, eyes fluttering closed.

After a minute or so, he mumbled, “Will you be okay in the chair? I have blankets, if you want to —”

“I’ll be fine.” Alistair smiled, and without thinking reached up to stroke his fingers through Cullen’s hair.

Cullen stiffened, and Alistair jerked his hand away.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, _damn it_!

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said hurriedly, staring intently at his feet. “I just — last night you started to get upset, almost hysterical, and I — I did that and it helped. But it’s — I know it’s probably — I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Cullen squeezed their hands that were still joined. “Alistair.”

His voice didn’t sound angry or embarrassed, and Alistair risked a look up.

The earnestness in those kind eyes nearly stopped Alistair’s heart with its loveliness.

“Please do not apologize for what you did for me last night. Although I remember less than I wish, you clearly provided comfort when I needed it, and for that I will always be grateful.” Cullen blinked back tears — fucking lyrium, making him so damned weepy — and said, “I do not know what I have done in my life to earn such a kind, selfless friend, but I will never fault you for offering me comfort.”

“Still,” Alistair murmured. “I should have at least asked.”

“I … would appreciate that, in the future,” said Cullen. “But I was merely surprised. I wouldn’t object to — that is …” He squeezed his eyes closed as his cheeks turned an impressively dark shade of red.

Alistair’s face burned, too, but he did what Cullen needed him to do.

He joked.

“If you need me to pretend to be Mia, you can just ask.”

Cullen snorted.

“‘Cullen!’” Alistair said in a high-pitched voice. “‘Tell me everything about the Inquisitor! What’s the point of having a brother in the Inquisition if I can’t gossip about how wonderful she is? Also, I’m glad you’re not dead. Love, Mia.’”

“Maker, please, have mercy,” Cullen groaned, but a smirk played across his lips.

“‘Cullen! Get some sleep!’” Alistair continued as he snuck his hand into Cullen’s hair. Cullen immediately relaxed, as if Alistair had cast a spell. “‘Cullen! Take a break! Cullen! Write me long letters!’”

“Do you want to give me nightmares?” Cullen mumbled. “Your impression of her is far from soothing.”

“Rude,” Alistair said in his normal voice. “But I suppose I can accommodate you. Just this once.”

“Mmm.” Cullen was fading fast now. “Better.”

After only a minute more of soft, soothing words and gentle fingers through his hair, Cullen’s breathing slowed until Alistair knew he was, finally, asleep.

“May your only dreams be pleasant ones,” Alistair whispered.

His hand continued its movement, but Alistair allowed his eyes to roam Cullen’s face. Thank the Maker, he looked far less ghoul-y than earlier — his cheeks less sunken, the bags under his eyes not quite as prominent. Most wonderful of all, he looked peaceful, and Alistair wondered with a pang how long it had been since Cullen had last been so. Hopefully at some point since he’d left Kirkwall, but Alistair couldn’t be confident — the lack of lyrium made his nightmares worse, not better.

Could this respite be because of his presence?

The thought made Alistair’s stomach flip, and his heart fluttered at the feel of those soft, blond curls through his fingers and the utter handsomeness of Cullen’s features. It wasn’t fair, really, that one person could be so smart and brave and competent and funny and ridiculously good-looking, but that was Cullen. It was almost unreal.

Alistair brought his hand down to cup and caress Cullen’s cheek. As he did, he leaned in close and kissed Cullen’s forehead.

And then he jerked away. Far away. His traitorous stomach swooped oh-so-pleasantly — no, no, no.

No.

Swooping was bad.

No sooner had he thought it than all the emotions he’d been pushing away to deal with later came, yes, swooping in all at once, overwhelming his heart and mind until they coalesced into a single big, fat, stupid, irresponsible, _impossible_ conclusion.

He was in love.

With Cullen Rutherford.

Maker, he hated when Leliana was right.


End file.
